


Infirmary Talks

by Greenlips24



Series: Infirmary Talks [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2020-01-11 23:53:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 32,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18434726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greenlips24/pseuds/Greenlips24
Summary: Sometimes, amongst the bandages and candlelight, there is banter and there is angst. This is a series of different fly-on-the-wall conversations between those who find themselves within the four walls of the Infirmary.





	1. The Spaniard

**Athos and Aramis:**

_Pain._

_Cloying heat, sweat and the smell of blood._

_Questions and screams._

_Darkness and shadows._

_More pain._

_Oblivion._

**oOo**

Movement - arms that encircle him; the sway of a wagon.

Pain.

Silence and soft murmurings.

The smell of tincture and salve and candlewax.

Gentle hands and hands that tear at his skin.

Heat.

Oblivion.

**oOo**

Fingers trace the symbol on his forehead. He does not believe in such ceremony and turns his head away.

It persists.

When he opens his eyes, he finds he is staring at his arm, which lies next to his face on the pillow. He curls his hand into a tight fist; unable yet to distinguish between anger and relief.

Lying on his side with his other arm resting on his hip seems to be the most comfortable position.

Lying on his back is definitely not an option.

“You must stay awake now, Athos,” a voice insists. “It has been too long.” 

The voice seems far away and he ignores it.

 _Awake ..._ when all he has prayed for, for days, is sleep.

A hand takes hold of his jaw and fingers squeeze painfully; making him gasp. His eyes spring open, expecting to see The Spaniard.

Surprisingly, it is not the man whose company he has kept for the past six days.

“Stay awake now,” his new tormentor persists.

 _Awake ..._ when the man who now looks at him with kind eyes is obviously the one who has drugged him into sleep.

For his own good, no doubt; he remembers the pain. He had welcomed oblivion.

“Do you know me?” the voice returns, more gentle; now that he has gotten his attention.

“You are the medic,” Athos replies through cracked, sore lips.

Aramis frowns; but then he sees the faint glint in his brother’s eye; waiting for a reaction.

_There he is._

Aramis shakes his head and smiles, leaning forward to gently drip water into the parched mouth.

_“Drink.”_

**oOo**

_“The medic,”_ he muses to himself as he continues the steady drip over the next half hour.

How had that happened?

Because there had been no alternative, he knew; and his once-idle interest had turned to stark necessity. It was a burden, and it was a joy. It twisted his gut and it flipped his stomach. Sometimes brutal, occasionally gentle but when he saw the trust in their eyes; it made his heart soar and his eyes water.

 _Medic._ He would not pass that mantle over now unless he had no choice. Unless their lives hung by a thread too thin for even his delicate fingers to hold. Fingers that would then wring themselves until the joints screamed. Until their screaming stopped; and they lived on.

There has been no time to pass the mantle this time, but Athos lives on.

Despite The Spaniard.

**oOo**

“Now, tell me what hurts. The Captain wants a full report.”

Athos cracked an eye open and looked at him.

“I see you are considering my request. Don’t be stubborn. He was with us when we found you. He is not a fool.”

Later:

“How _did_ you find me?”

“He gave you up,” Aramis replied, tightly. “We were close. He made sure we saw him and then he rode off. It was the only building and he left it open.”

“I don’t understand it,” Aramis continued, watching Athos carefully.

Athos did not answer; offering no enlightenment.

Aramis usually knew when not to pursue, but he could not help himself. It had been ... curious.

He tried a different question.

“How did you find yourself in his company?” he ventured, wringing out the cloth.

“I fell into his trap. It was most ingenious.”

“You admired him?”

“No.”

“What then? He obviously made an impact; in more ways than one.”

Athos huffed, acknowledging the attempt at humour without a smile.

“I do not know. I will think on it.”

**oOo**

“Do you want soup, or something to chew?”

Athos knows the tone. All business - not to be deterred.

For a long moment, he thinks and then realises an answer is required.

“I do not think my stomach would welcome either.”

“When did you last eat?”

Athos considers; staring at the wall.

“I remember a full moon through a very small window.”

Aramis knew the window he spoke of; the only light in the black hellhole they finally found him in.

“That was four days ago, Athos,” Aramis says; his voice trailing off.

The statement hung in the air between them; one of them concerned, the other not so; all things considered.

“So,” Aramis says a few moments later, when he has composed himself. “Soup or chew?”

Athos closes his eyes, wanting to be left in peace.

He lays in this enforced position with his hand over his eyes, either because of the unaccustomed light or to shut out any unwelcome presence. This morning, in wakefulness, his hand has unconsciously pushed its way up, revealing a bruise that Aramis had not seen yesterday. He puts his own hand there, pushing the swordsman’s hand gently aside, to take a closer look. New bruises seem to darken his pale skin by the hour though, so he shouldn’t have been surprised.

“I’ll bring you that soup.”

“I did not make my preference known.”

“Something with vegetables!” Aramis continues brightly, realising he is still holding his friend’s hair back from his forehead.

“Not onion,” Aramis hears, bringing him out of his ruminations. He looks down.

“What?”

“I do not care for onion soup.”

“I remember.”

He removes his hand and smiles softly; turning to go.

“Shallot, then,” Aramis says wickedly; escaping quickly through the door - followed by an angry growl.

As Aramis makes his way down the short corridor, his shoulders slowly straighten and his recent heavy footsteps become lighter as his heart lifts. Slowly, a smile spreads across his face and as he steps outside into the sunshine, the medic greets everyone he meets.

By the time he reaches the kitchen, he is Aramis again.

**oOo**

“Are you in pain?” a familiar voice asks, drifting in; bringing him back through the haze and to more pain.

Everything hurts.

“No.”

“Good. Can you sit up a little?” 

Athos groans inwardly. He had asked for that.

“If you help, I will endeavour to do so.”

By necessity, he has to open his eyes and his tormentor swims into view; stirring soup.

Putting the bowl down, he offers an arm, which Athos is obliged to grasp. He is gently levered up and a pillow is tossed behind him. It is excruciating, but technically it works remarkably well and the window opposite comes into view, though the shutters are closed; the light still being too much to deal with.

“Soup, with Serge’s compliments,” came the overly cheerful voice that grates and he grudgingly opens his mouth; immensely irritated that he lacks the strength to even hold the damned spoon on his own.

Oh, but that first spoonful! He knows he will never forget the taste. It floods his senses; the flavour enhanced by starvation. 

He manages three spoonfuls.

“It’s onion.” Aramis sighs regretfully. “I know it’s not your preference, but it’s all Serge had. He’s making you something else for later.”

“I have changed my mind on it. It is ... commendable.” 

That seems to please Aramis and his playful mood continues.

“Did you have servants who did this for you?” he asks idly, stirring the cooling soup.

That earns him a glare, as intended. And no response, as expected.

His tormentor persists.

“You must have had help with all your finery, though? All those buttons and frills?”

Silence.

“The shoes,” Athos murmurs, surprising Aramis, who nearly drops the spoon. “Mustn’t forget the damned buckled shoes.”

Aramis laughs.

Athos watches him, before deciding to offer more.

“When I first put on the Musketeer jacket and felt it mould to my body, I thought it the most wonderful garment I had ever worn.”

“More than the brocades?” his medic taunts.

“And the velvet,” Athos replies, sleepily.

“He was very patient,” he suddenly says, catching Aramis unawares and darkening the mood somewhat. 

“The Spaniard?”

“Hmm. I think I infuriated him.”

Aramis snorts; and receives a raised eyebrow in response.

Aramis composes himself and raises the spoon once more.

_“Eat.”_

**oOo**

_“Sleep.”_

Once he was allowed to sleep, he was overwhelmed with exhaustion; allowing himself to be manhandled and manoeuvred. Only then did some semblance of calm permeate his thoughts as he was left to his own devices; waiting for that which he had so longed for.

Aramis had cleared his path, leaving him warm, his thirst quenched and his stomach full.

The creak of the chair told him he was not alone. Other sounds that reached his ears were equally familiar and comforting as life went on around him and he began to feel a part of it once more. The smell of lavender on his pillow and the light touch on his cheek were all he needed, and he finally gave himself permission to sleep.

**oOo**

“He was a strange type of soldier.”

“Why do you say that?” Aramis responded.

“He knew his wine.”

“He taunted you?”

“Somewhat.”

“And the whipping?” Aramis asked gently.

 _“I_ taunted him.”

**oOo**

“Your hands are too cold,” Athos complained.

“And you are too hot.”

“What a pair we are.”

“You challenge me, brother,” Aramis whispered, the threaded needle sinking into flayed flesh; some of his previous endeavours broken free.

“You like to learn,” a whispered response, ground out through clenched jaws.

“You give me plenty of practise ...”

“I am pleased to be of service.”

_“Lie still.”_

**oOo**

“How did you pass the time?”

“He was very inventive. It focused my mind.”

Aramis had washed his face when they first laid him on the table. He had seen the tear tracks that traced down from the corner of his eyes into his beard.

He had washed them quickly away; feeling his own eyes sting.

**oOo**

“I have often wondered, what is the purpose of the rat?”

Aramis paused, caught unawares by the sudden question.

“All God’s creatures have a purpose, mon ami.”

“Perhaps you could ask Him the next time you converse.”

“Why do you ask?”

“No reason. I have had occasion to study them of late and the answer eludes me.”

Athos did not look at him, having strayed into territory he regretted and not wishing to invite further comment. 

He felt a warm hand on his shoulder, which nearly undid him.

**oOo**

“Stop you’re damned fussing.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“You can be incredibly annoying.”

“Then I will leave you in your bed with your mood and find a more congenial companion.”

“You said everyone was out.”

“Treville is in his office. And I believe His Eminence is in residence today.

There was a brief silence.

“Sit,” Athos growled.

Aramis smiled to himself and did as he was told.

**oOo**

Later, when the sun had set and the shadows lengthened.

“He was persistent,” Athos said, quietly, watching as the candle was lit and the flame leapt to attention. 

“He realised you would give him nothing,” Aramis said; firm in his belief in his dear friend.

“In the end, perhaps,” Athos replied, remembering when he could no longer look up at the small window; when he could only see the floor. 

Until he could see that no longer.

_The rope around his neck was so short his forehead was only inches from the stone floor. Caught unaware while he was still on his knees, he had been forced down into that position and now his legs were numb and the unnatural position made his once-honed muscles scream. His bare feet scraped as he was pulled and pushed. His bound hands were now jammed against his chest, making breathing difficult._

_When he felt the remnants of his shirt torn from him and the first lash across his back, he was almost relieved; fearing he would be left in this painful, impossible position. But it was for another purpose, it seemed._

_As the punishment continued, he kept his forehead pressed to the floor. Any sudden movement would have led to his strangulation. The occasional crack of his head against the iron ring securing the rope only served as a welcomed distraction._

_When it was over, he became aware that he was gasping in the stale air he was trying to push from his lungs; his face now pushed against the cold, wet floor. Wet from sweat and tears and the blood from the lip he appeared to have bitten through._

_Boots drummed slowly past his ear and he caught a glimpse of well-kept black leather._

_Again fearing he would be left in this position, he shifted back to ease his aching hips, only to feel the rope bite against the skin of his throat._

_Sometime later, the rope was pulled free of its tether. The boot rested briefly, caressing his shoulder, until he was kicked sharply, sending him onto his side, still curled in on himself; his bound, numb hands tight against his chest._

_He was almost grateful._

**oOo**

Finally, the question Aramis knew would come.

“Where is Porthos?”

Aramis paused from folding linens, holding them to his chest.

“The short answer is - he’s out.”

“And the long answer?”

Aramis sighed and sat heavily on the bed, smoothing the linen now lying neatly across his lap.

“He waited until you showed signs of waking, and then he set out to track your Spaniard down.”

The moment stretched, as Aramis watched his friend process his words; unsure of his response. His relationship with his tormentor had been complex and Porthos was their cherished friend.

Finally, Athos spoke one word.

“Good.”

Aramis relaxed and made to stand.

“And he is not _my_ Spaniard.”

**oOo**

“He let you live,” Aramis said, but did not fully understand.

“He gave me a choice; to live or to die.”

“What? What did he see in you to offer you that?”

“Something in himself, perhaps.”

“A noble end for him? When your rescue was in sight?” Aramis said in disgust, pulling the blanket tighter; his head down so that Athos could not see his face.

“I did not know you were so close,” Athos said quietly. “And the choice was for both of us.”

“A pact?!” Aramis whispered, incredulously; his voice having left him.

But Athos just stared past him.

“And you believe he would have honoured your choice, if you chose death? Would we have found _two_ corpses, Athos?!”

Athos turned his eyes on him and Aramis saw his question answered. 

“You did admire him,” Aramis said then.

Athos sighed.

“As one admires a predator. There is a skill in it.”

Aramis shivered; seeing in his mind’s eye The Spaniard watching them from the hill and then riding away.

“He did not win, Aramis,” Athos murmured.

He spoke with his eyes closed, so Aramis could not read him.

“How so? You chose to live,” Aramis said quietly. “And in doing so, you allowed _him_ to live.”

Athos opened his eyes and looked at him.

“And I had brought out the worst in him. He will have to live with that.”

Aramis held his gaze and finally he nodded, some semblance of understanding settling on him.

“Then let us hope Porthos doesn’t find him,” he said quietly.

“Indeed.”

Aramis took his hand. 

“Too close, brother,” he said, softly. “It was much too close.”

“I knew you would come,” Athos answered. “I just did not know what you would find.”

**oOo**

“We should lift you up; you cannot lay on your side forever. I’ll open the shutters and you can stare at the rooftops of Paris.”

“We are on the ground floor and a wall encircles us.”

“Use your imagination.”

“You are always telling me I have none.”

“Then I will teach you.”

Sitting next to Athos, his legs stretched out on the blankets, Aramis leaned in close; indicating the window in front of them and waving his arm expansively.

“The rooftop there on the right, with the red tiles, is the home of Madame Beauchene. She maintains it well, as she maintains herself,” he winked.

“The one to the left with the small chimney; there resides the beautiful Madame Charbonneau. Those tiles are very slippery; you have to hook your fingers underneath to get a good grip,” he whispered conspiratorially, demonstrating the action in intricate detail.

“Ah, that one in the distance ...”

He chatted on happily; Athos side-glancing him occasionally and rolling his eyes when Aramis looked down at him.

The view of the blank wall would never be the same again.


	2. Empty-handed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unexpected confinement in the Infirmary and the company of friends. Not always a good thing?

“It’s called “Quarantine.”

“Ain’t fair. They weren’t THAT sick!”

“It is not for us to decide, Porthos.”

“And it was the whole family,” Aramis threw in his observations. “They had all been sick for some time. Their neighbours were restless.”

“Well, we had to rescue them, Gentlemen. An epidemic would not be welcomed in the neighbourhood and the riot would have spread.”

“And they still have their home,” Aramis smiled at Athos; trying to be positive.

“Most of it,” d’Artagnan muttered.

“So! What are we to do with ourselves, my friends?” Aramis said, hands on hips, looking at them expectantly.

“Got any food in ‘ere?” Porthos pre-empted any suggestions, as he began to prowl around the room throwing drawers and cupboards open.

The room seems a lot smaller as he barrelled around; a determined look on his face.

“Why yes, Porthos, the cupboards are full of foodstuffs. If it weren’t for all the bandages, I would have more room for it,” Aramis said, shoving him aside and closing the drawers and cupboard doors.

“No doubt food will arrive at some point, Gentlemen. We have Lemay’s orders - we stay here until he says otherwise; so we will have to make the best of it.”

“We could train?” d’Artagnan said; his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“I think not, but I appreciate your enthusiasm,” Athos replied.

d’Artagnan had only been with them a few months and it could be tiring watching his bursts of youthful energy; often at inappropriate moments.

“Sparring in confined spaces is a lesson for the future,” Athos added.

“I can spar in confined spaces!” d’Artagnan muttered, indignantly.

“Not when we’re confined with ya,” Porthos growled; hunger making him bad-tempered.

He pulled out a deck of cards from an inside pocket and started shuffling them quietly; mumbling to himself. The others steered clear.

Just then, heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor of their – hopefully - temporary accommodation in the Infirmary.

They all turned toward the door expectantly as it was thrown open.

The body that filled the doorway was known to them.

“Serge!” Aramis cried, good-naturedly, as the others looked hopefully at their cook; before taking in the blanket he was carrying. And his otherwise empty hands.

“Sorry, lads – Doctor’s orders,” Serge grunted, “I’m in quarantine too,” he added; not looking particularly upset to be away from his kitchen duties.

“’ave you brought any food?” Porthos asked hopefully, quickly putting his cards away.

“’e wouldn’t let me finish. Said I ‘ad to come straight ‘ere.” The old man replied, happily.

“Why?” Athos asked, nonplussed.

“When you all came back, after rescuin’ that sick family,” Serge carefully explained, as if he were talking to four year olds, _he ..,”_ he said, pointing at Porthos, “came straight to my kitchen on the scrounge.”

“Ah,” said Athos, turning to glare at Porthos. “Possible contamination by infection as yet unknown.”

“Well, I was ‘ungry!” Porthos replied, without a shred of remorse.

“You are always hungry.”

Serge sat down on the edge of a vacant cot, dumping his blanket beside him. The others all sat opposite, looking at him.

“Do you think someone’ll bring food?” Porthos asked, ever hopeful; chewing the end of his thumb.

“Porthos, please,” Aramis said; not wanting to listen to Porthos complain for the next God Knows How Long.

“You got any assignations planned for tonight?” Porthos shot back at Aramis as he dropped down heavily on another vacant cot.

Aramis opened his mouth to reply and suddenly seemed to remember Something. Rather. Important.

“Oh.”

The rumble of laughter Porthos emitted filled the room as Aramis spun around and turned his back on him. He stalked across the room; now biting the end of his own thumb.

If anyone saw Athos smile, no-one mentioned it.

There was silence for a while; no-one quite knowing what to do with their enforced “free” time. The fact that Serge had turned up empty-handed was a great disappointment to them.

Meanwhile, Serge continued to make himself comfortable.

No-body spoke. 

“This reminds me of a siege I was once at, in my soldierin’ days,” Serge suddenly piped up enthusiastically; obviously enjoying the fact that he had a captive audience.

Aramis dropped his head theatrically in his hands, not knowing which was worse - Porthos’s complaints or Serge’s reminiscences.

Porthos collapsed back on the cot and started to snore.

“A siege?! What was it like?” d’Artagnan cried; before anyone could kick him in the shin.

“’orrible,” the old man replied instantly, shaking his head.

“Confined spaces ain’t good,” Porthos muttered.

“I thought you were asleep,” d’Artagnan said, side-glancing his large friend; still flat on his back on the cot.

“I thought ‘e was goin’ to talk about turnips,” Porthos replied, lifting his head and squinting at Serge.

“Turnips??” Aramis said, confused.

“He is very knowledgeable about vegetables,” their leader said quietly from the corner.

“Stop talking about turnips! I want war stories,” d’Artagnan said, pulling his legs up beneath him and making himself comfortable.

The old man smiled.

“Got plenty of ‘em.”

Porthos dropped his back on his pillow and closed his eyes.

Aramis looked at Athos and made a pained face.

Athos shrugged and pulled his hat low over his eyes before tipping his chair back.

Only Serge and d’Artagnan looked happy.

**oOo**


	3. "Don't You Dare!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **This is an excerpt** from my story, "An Unlikely Brotherhod." It fits with Infirmary Talks, so I included it. After the Musketeers have been ambushed and eight have died, the survivors fill the Infirmary. Aramis and Porthos try to cope.

It had been carnage.

Treville sat at his desk with a heavy heart and a weariness he had never felt before. He considered the coming hours. This was unprecedented. Six of his men were dead. Eight badly wounded and, of those eight, four who possibly may also die.

Some of his best men were gone.

Two royal surgeons had been sent to the Garrison; so at least his men were in good hands. A room had been set aside for surgery, with an outer room for those waiting their turn with the surgeons; who would work in shifts throughout the night.

Those waiting their attention were laid in line, depending on the severity of their injuries.

Once passed from one room to the other, their injuries dealt with; they would then be placed in a larger room where eight beds had been set up, four along one wall, and four opposite, forming a ward.

A small room at the back of the Garrison was to be used as a mortuary for the six already dead and others who may follow, either during surgery or in recovery. Extra staff were brought in from the nearby vicinity for labour in the laundry and the kitchens.

The gravedigger had been alerted, as had the priest.

The men went into surgery in strict rotation.

Athos was fourth in line.

Aramis’s job was to strip the waiting patients and wash them in readiness. All of those returning had arrived in a filthy state, their clothes caked in dust and blood. Discarded uniforms were thrown unceremoniously into the corner of the room, to be removed by laundry staff, for repair or destruction.

He had carefully kept his eyes off Athos as he slowly neared the front of the queue.

When it was his turn, Aramis squared his shoulders and prepared his brother, and then asked on the spur of the moment if he could go in with him and help. Once inside, he was confronted by the surgeon in a bloodied apron, standing on an even bloodier floor.

The surgeon was already tired. 

He looked up as Aramis approached.

“Go to the top of the table,” he said quietly. “We are running low on sleeping draft and he may wake; take hold of his shoulders.”

Aramis did as he was bid, stomach clenched against the sight and smell of the room.

The surgeon looked down at Athos and his eyes moved to the newly stitched wound in his neck.

“Who did this?” he asked quietly, his fingers deftly tracing the stitches.

“I did,” Aramis replied, “It could not wait.”

The surgeon bent closer, and Aramis held his breath.

“Nice work,” he said,quietly. “Very neat.” Looking up, the surgeon met his eyes gave him a wan smile and Aramis breathed again.

“Let us see if I can replicate your delicacy,” he added.

In the end Athos did not stir, as Aramis again watched the surgeon’s deft fingers probing quickly for the musket ball buried deep in his flesh. He had to cut wider and go deeper that he had hoped but his touch was sure. When it was over, the surgeon finally took off the ruined apron and reached for a clean one.

“Thank you, you did well,” the surgeon offered.

“That was brutal,” Aramis whispered, his trembling hands resting on either side of Athos’s head.

“Tell me that again in a month when he is walking beside you once more,” the surgeon said, tying the clean apron around his waist as he waited for the next patient to be brought in. Aramis met his eyes.

“Forgive me, I meant no offence,” he whispered.

Where other surgeons may have left Athos mutilated or crippled; Aramis knew that this man had not.

**oOo**

As evenings went, this had to be one of the worst ones Porthos had endured.

And he had endured many.

He shook his head once more to fling the sweat out of his eyes, knowing he would have to repeat the action many times in the next few hours. Looking around the Infirmary, he knew that adrenaline and exhaustion had left him on the verge of panic as his eyes swept around the room, now full.

The ambush had come as the light was fading and they were making their way back to the Garrison. Sixteen Musketeers, released from duty on the banks of the Seine where the King's carriage had earlier passed to both cheers and derision from his subjects.

Now, those that were injured were all around him, every bed taken. The room was dark, lit by candles and lanterns which hung from brackets on the walls at either end.

He could hear Treville barking orders in the outer room. His ears filled with the cries, screams and groans of his brothers in arms.

Six dead.

Eight wounded; four of those critically.

It had become a mantra.

That left two, relatively unscathed; Aramis and himself, plus their Captain, Treville, who had led them home by any means he had found. Aramis had ridden in the back of someone's cart with his hands clamped firmly on Athos's neck, slippery with the blood that would not cease; until his fingers cramped up ad Porthos took over. He stitched the gash quickly as soon as he could before the surgeons came.

_The best of the best,_ Treville had said as he had surveyed the chaos on their arrival back at the Garrison.

The rest of the Regiment were still out, hunting out the perpetrators. But it was close to midnight now and they had not returned. He hoped they were safely camped for the night and would return in the morning. However, he feared that the assassins had long since melted into the night.

**oOo**

In the dim light, Porthos searched for Aramis - last seen across the room, pinning Marchant to his bed as the man writhed in pain, threatening to tear the stitches across his chest.

Aramis was now nowhere to be seen but not far away, he knew. His skills had been sorely needed this evening and Porthos knew he would not rest until everything he could do had been done; most of his time spent in the outer room, next to where the two surgeons laboured into the evening. Sent by the King, the surgeons had arrived along with medical supplies, sheets, bandages and extra lanterns.

Porthos himself had spent the past two hours moving around the Infirmary, going where he was needed; lifting, swabbing floors, gathering up linens, fetching, carrying, and praying. He was not a man who usually prayed. All the time looking toward the far side of the room, watching the still figure, unconscious since leaving the surgeon’s care two hours ago. There was nothing he could do, but that did not mean he was not acutely aware of the shallow rise and fall of his brother’s chest.

In the distance, Notre Dame chimed the midnight hour. Inside the Garrison, time had no meaning.

But now, he needed Aramis, because Athos was starting to move. Porthos moved quickly over to the bed in the corner, his heart sinking at the fevered sheen now obvious on his brother’s face and chest.

He had two wounds, a musket ball to his hip and a rapier cut to his neck, now both heavily bandaged. Porthos felt justified in scooping him up in his arms and pulling him into his chest to try and stop the thrashing that was beginning. The room itself was quieter now; most of the patients unconscious or settled, and Porthos looked wildly around, searching for Aramis, but to no avail. He dare not call out, in fear of disturbing his fellow brothers and there was still activity in the next room, where the surgeons still toiled; so he held his tongue.

Then, as if with second sight, Aramis appeared in the doorway, the light at his back; wiping his bloodied hands on a cloth and looking right at him.

**oOo**

Athos is floating, and he is content to do so. 

He opens his eyes and when he finally focuses, it is Porthos’s face he sees, inches away from his own.

Their eyes lock; Porthos is saying something and because he is repeating it, over and over again, Athos finally catches it.

_“I won’t let you go ... I won’t let you go ..._

_You’re my family ..._

_You don’t get to leave me!!_

_You don’t get to leave me ..._

_DON’T YOU DARE!_

_I’m your anchor, Athos ..._

_Don't you let go ... don’t you let go .”_

Athos finds his voice and he thinks he says the right thing because Porthos gives that low laugh of his, followed by his wide smile.

He can feel his strong arm across his shoulders, holding his upper body up, but his legs are heavy on the mattress and a wave of pain hits him and he can do nothing but arch backward. When Athos looks up again into his brother’s face, Porthos’s smile has gone, and he is frowning down at him and Athos is unsure what has caused that.

Porthos tightens his grip.

It does nothing to save him falling away, down a deep well of blackness, watching as Porthos’s contorted face grows smaller and smaller, the further down he goes. 

There is a roaring in his ears, and he thinks it may be Porthos.

**oOo**

Standing in the doorway, Aramis locked eyes with Porthos. He saw how Porthos had taken Athos into his arms, like a small child, his face close enough so Athos could hear what he was saying.

Elsewhere, someone screamed and Porthos finally felt justified in shouting himself; it would not be he who disturbed his injured brothers after all. He yelled across the room to Aramis to fetch laudanum. Porthos’s arm was around Athos’s shoulders and he was holding him in a half sitting position, but Aramis could see Athos’s head was beginning to fall back.

Too late for laudanum.

Aramis dropped the cloth and crossed the room at a run.

Skidding to a halt at the side of the bed he put one hand on Porthos’s shoulder and the other on Athos’s chest, and by that action, Porthos lowered his brother down onto the mattress. Porthos’s shirt was wet where he had been holding Athos and the heat now radiating from Athos’s limp body was evidence that this new day had dawned with further trials in her heart.

But Athos breathed still, and Aramis rolled up his sleeves and went in search of cold water. Porthos shucked off Athos’s shirt and used it to mop his chest and face, steeling himself for the coming hours.

Much later, Athos awoke in pain and seared with fever.

Listening, he could hear Aramis’s voice somewhere, moving around the room and murmuring in Spanish to those around him. 

Prayers.

He looked for Porthos and saw him on the floor to his right, against the wall; broad arms on the bed and his head resting on top of them. He was asleep, almost in a kneeling position. This had been a bad time, then.

He must have closed his eyes, because Porthos was gone and Aramis now sat on the bed beside him. With gentle hands, he turned his face toward him. It seemed it was his turn for murmured prayers. He felt his head raised and something put to his lips and because it was Aramis, he swallowed without complaint. A foul tasting medicine, but he lay back and waited for the pain to fade, before everything around him faded once more.

Later, Porthos brought two cold wet sheets from outside, where the kitchen staff was busy at the end of a queue, soaking sheets for all the men who had developed fevers, Athos included. Aramis deftly removed the fever-soaked sheet from Athos and replaced it quickly with a clean wet one, which quickly remoulded itself to his form. As his wounds were both on his left side, they had turned him to lay on his right; Porthos had wedged himself between the bed and the wall on that side to keep watch. After the afternoon was passed in this way, they both realised that more was needed if they were to break his fever.

Porthos stood up stiffly and rubbed his legs.

“Damn legs, can’t feel ‘em; the floor’s so bloody cold!” he muttered.

They looked at each other.

“That’s it!” said Aramis, “We should lay those with fever on the floor!”

“It needs cleanin’ though,” Porthos grumbled, looking warily at the flagstones that they had all been walking on.

“That will have to wait; we’ll put a clean sheet down for them to lie on; we need the cold to come through the sheet,” Aramis replied, animated now.

So together, they pushed the bed up against the wall and threw a clean sheet on the floor. Fortunately, Louis had sent further supplies from his own stores and there was no shortage of linen. Then, they carefully moved Athos down onto the floor with a pillow for his head, and then threw another wet sheet over him.

“This will either cure or kill ‘im,” muttered Porthos darkly.

They did the same with two other men who were suffering from high fevers and then Aramis sat down once more beside Athos on the floor, and Porthos lay himself on the bed so he could lean over the side and keep an eye on their friend. It would not do to allow him to twist and turn freely and incur further injury.

In the doorway, the surgeon watched. 

His colleague had now returned to the Palace, and he himself was gathering up his equipment in preparation of taking his leave; all the men settled and their task completed. 

Aramis looked up then and seeing him watching them, he waited for a challenge. But it did not come. The surgeon merely looked around the room sadly, and then back to Aramis. Fever had always been a possibility, given the filthy condition in which the men had returned to the Garrison.

With one slow nod of his head, he turned back into the room, disappearing from sight. Perhaps he knew that he could not stop these two tenacious men doing everything in their power to help their friends. 

There had been no further deaths but fever was threatening to take those who had come this far; their care would now pass to local doctors.

**oO** o

_“Athos ...Athos ...”_ Hushed words that pull at the darkness.

There is a finger lightly stroking his palm.

Then, a whispered voice he recognises, deep and warm and urgent.

_“Come on, Athos; don’t let the buggers win.”_

The finger becomes a hand, holding firmly.

And in that moment, Athos knows where he is; 

And he is anchored.

**oOo**

**A/N:** "An Unlikely Brotherhood" is a Porthos-centric story, but if you'd like to know how Athos fares the full story is posted on this site." 

Thanks for reading! More Infirmary Talks soon.


	4. The Fire

**Porthos and Friends:**

The call had gone up as soon as the smoke was seen, rising from the roofs on the other side of the Garrison wall. The buildings were tightly packed together, businesses and home side by side. The streets and alleyways were narrow. Flames had yet to appear, but the wind was changeable and the smoke wafted left and right.

On a day such as this, a fire could leap from one building to another and a whole street could be lost before anything could be done. People had started to gather in the street, their cries clearly heard from inside the Infirmary.

“We should move him,” Athos said quietly.

“It will kill him.”

“If the fire spreads, Aramis ....”

“No,” Aramis replied firmly, not meeting Athos’s eyes.

Athos turned around, finding d’Artagnan still standing in the doorway, having brought them the latest news of the fire, which was creeping ever closer.

“d’Artagnan, get something to move Porthos,” Athos said.

Aramis stood angrily, facing Athos.

“Don’t you care about Porthos?!!”

Athos held his gaze, before looking down at Porthos, unconscious since the incident in the market three hours since. It had been a gamble to bring him back with his head injury as it was, and having succeeded, Aramis was adamant he would remain where he was until he woke.

The problem was, he did not know when that would be.

Porthos always loved a gamble, Aramis thought bitterly.

“You cannot stay here,” Athos persisted, his voice low.

He flicked his hand at d’Artagnan, who turned to leave, in search of a stretcher and men who could manhandle their man-mountain out of the infirmary to safety. However, he turned back as Aramis spoke again.

“And where would you take him, Athos? Have you thought? For, I believe we are encircled by potential fire. No building is safe.

Athos’s stony face gave nothing away.

When challenged in this way, Aramis knew Athos could go either way. He prepared himself to disobey the expected order to move.

d’Artagnan was still standing uncertainly in the doorway, mesmerised by the force of the argument taking place.

“Very well.”

Aramis did not expect that.

**oOo**

“But the Garrison is safe, surely. The perimeter wall?” d’Artagnan asked, as Musketeers were sent to assist local residents in their efforts to evacuate their houses and save their animals.

Athos leant against the wall and looked up at the Infirmary ceiling.

“This roof is part-timbered. We have been meaning to replace it for some time,” he replied.

“If a spark found its way up there .....” Aramis added.

“So it depends on which way the wind blows,” d’Artagnan replied, looking at Athos.

“Keep watch and report back to us,” Athos replied, and d’Artagnan turned quickly and left.

Athos started to strip blankets from the beds. He and Aramis then put them up against the shutters, ramming them into the slats. The lack of light made the room gloomy, as befitted their mood.

“Do you have everything you need?” Athos asked then.

“There is nothing more I can do for him,” Aramis replied softly.

**oOo**

Soon, d’Artagnan returned, breathless from his dash back from the street.

“It’s spread to the blacksmith’s” d’Artagnan reported, crossing to the table to pour water which he drank back in one gulp. He had obviously been helping, looking at the state of his hair and clothes.

“I’ve organised our horses’ move to the training area at the back.”

“Good,” Athos replied, “We can move them again, should the need arise.”

The noise of people crowding outside the wall, all intent on dousing the fire, was growing.

“A house nearby was smoking,” d’Artagnan added. “The one with the small chimney.”

“That sounds like Madame Charbonneau’s house,” Aramis said regretfully, as d’Artagnan described the house in question where flames had been visible; trickling in the spaces between the tiles where his fingers once took hold.*

“Then we must try and save it,” Athos said, rising, aware that Aramis was fond of the lady in question.

He left with d’Artagnan to muster the rest of the men and bark orders. It was too close, and the wind was beginning to send plumes of smoke toward the Garrison. Word had been sent to Treville at the Palace and he was expected back at any time. 

Porthos was unmoved by the proceedings; still unconscious. 

Alone now, Aramis took up Porthos’s hand, rubbing his thumb across the still fingers.

“It really would be quite useful if you woke up now, my friend,” Aramis sighed. 

He looked up at the ceiling.

“Athos is right. We really should get out of here.”

But as he looked at his friend's face, he knew he would not.

“Your chivalry this morning may be our undoing, mon ami,” he whispered, conspiratorially, as he remembered the circumstances that had brought them to the Infirmary this morning.

A potential assault and a woman’s scream was enough to make Porthos break away from their foot patrol in the market and head off in pursuit. He knew these alleys like the back of his very large hand, and he was gone before they realised. The man had accomplices though, waiting further along the rat run; ready to grab the woman as she fled and relieve her of her possessions and possibly her life. Porthos had grabbed the man by his collar, only to run straight into his fellows. They had pushed the woman at him, she told them later – preventing him from drawing his sword as he caught her. He had been felled from behind by the first man. Porthos’s friends had found him crumpled unconscious on the ground, bleeding from a head wound, the woman holding his head out of the mud and pleading for help as they rounded the corner.

**oOo**

Athos watched Aramis from the doorway. He saw how he bent over Porthos; talking quietly. He had seen that compassion and had personally experienced it many times before.

There would be no moving Aramis.

And therefore, no moving Porthos.

“Shouldn’t you be out there fighting the fire?” Aramis said, without looking up.

“The Red Guard has arrived. There are so many people out there it is impossible to move,” Athos replied. 

Aramis smiled for the first time that morning.

“They probably came thinking it was the Garrison on fire,” he replied, looking across at Athos.

“Come to gloat,” Athos replied; and they were back on track with each other.

“If you recall, one of their favourite taverns is in the immediate vicinity,” Athos added.

“Ah.”

Sometime later, water started dripping through the ceiling; forming puddles on the Infirmary floor.

“It’s d’Artagnan," Athos said. "He is soaking the roof timbers.” 

“He’s ruining our ceiling,” Aramis replied.

d’Artagnan came back then, to tell them the saddlery was burning, and smoke was billowing from the roof of the bakery next door to it.

**oOo**

The flames were rising some ten feet in the air now.

“There is nothing more to be done. It depends on God and the wind,” Athos said, striding back into the room.

“What? Aramis said. “Aren’t God and the wind one and the same?”

Athos chose to answer the first question and ignore the second.

“The Garrison is in its direct path if the wind blows east.”

He dropped his weapon belt on the table and pulled out a chair.

“What are you doing?”

“If we cannot risk moving Porthos, we won’t. Neither will we leave you both; for I know that nothing I can say will move you from this room.”

Aramis stared at Athos.

He looked past him and saw d’Artagnan standing quietly in the doorway.

“You too?”

d’Artagnan nodded and smiled. His face was covered in soot, which made his smile all the more bright.

Aramis had to look away quickly, so they could not see his eyes, for he held his love for his brothers there. He also held his fear.

“All for One, Aramis,” Athos said, moving forward and gripping his shoulder.

d’Artagnan moved to the shutters and made sure they were fully covered, each space between the slats stuffed completely to keep the smoke out. He then crossed the room and quickly shut the door and placed a rolled up blanket at its base.

They could all smell the acrid smoke now.

Athos poured them all a cup of wine and pulled his chair up.

“How is he?”

“There is nothing more I can do for him.” Aramis replied quietly. “We must wait and hope.”

Outside, they could hear roof tiles across the street cracking.

“You don’t have to stay,” Aramis said, looking at them both.

“It is not open for discussion.”

_“Athos ...”_

“No, Aramis; you asked if I cared about Porthos. How could I not?”

Aramis sighed.

“It is a strange way to die.”

“No-one is going to die,” Athos replied firmly.

“You have faith for someone who does not speak with God, mon ami,”

“There is more than one form of faith,” Athos said, taking Porthos’s other hand in his own.

**oOo**

In the gloom, they all sat together.

They had done all they could. All the business and home owners had been evacuated and the street was now cordoned off, guarded by Musketeers at one end, and Red Guard at the other; both glowering at each other.

Water was being passed along in buckets from anywhere it could be found, and tossed up onto the low roofs. As it hit hot tiles, it hissed and threw steam into the air. Some brave men moved across the tiles, above ground, to dampen down those areas not affected, and tackle those where flames threatened, but the wind was their enemy and they were all exhausted. The Garrison had been protected as much as was possible, the Musketeers who remained having done their duty. They had their orders to evacuate should the fire take hold irrevocably.

Their own duty now was to their brother, Porthos.

Suddenly Aramis rose, agitated; running his fingers through his hair.

“Was I wrong?!” he said, looking wildly at them.

d’Artagnan flinched as a crash came from outside; a roof having succumbed to the fire’s onslaught.

“No, you were right,” Athos said calmly. “We could not move him.”

Aramis paced the room, watched by his two brothers, before reaching for his crucifix and clasping it tightly.

“Have I condemned us all?” he whispered, in turmoil.

Athos swiftly stood then and approached him, putting both hands on his shoulders to still him.

“d’Artagnan and I made our own decision, Aramis,” he replied. “And we do not know how this will play out.”

“But, if you are in His good graces, now might be the time?” d’Artagnan said, smiling, nodding at Aramis’s crucifix.

Aramis looked down at his hands; knuckles white from holding his most treasured possession so tightly. 

“I have at least one more prayer in me,” he smiled, moving back toward Porthos.

No-one spoke as he bent his head and said his piece.

“It’s gone quiet,” d’Artagnan suddenly said, as Aramis finished.

They all listened, looking toward the covered window, as if it would give them answers.

Before they could move, a cheer went up outside and they all looked at each other. 

d’Artagnan crossed to the door and pulled the rolled-up blanket away. Before he could open it though, it was forcibly thrown open and he had to step back to avoid injury.

There, standing in the doorway, was Treville.

The three who could, quickly turned toward him.

“The wind has died and the fire is almost under control.” Treville said gruffly. “Well done on saving the Garrison, although I don’t approve of your suicide pact.” 

The tumble of words caught them off-guard, before they noticed that Treville was smiling.

“I doubt it would have come to that, Sir,” Athos replied. “And the Red Guard have, at least, been kept out of mischief.”

Treville huffed, and pulled up a chair.

“How is he?”

“Yet to wake, Captain,” Aramis replied.

“Do you need a physician?”

“One has been sent for. No doubt the fire held him up.”

“The wind just died?” Aramis asked then, confused.

“Everyone had given up,” Treville answered. “The wind was turning east, and then it just ... dropped away.”

“Lucky,” Athos said.

“A God-send,” Aramis replied.

d’Artagnan was grinning widely.

“Well, keep me informed,” Treville said, rising. “I have to return to the Palace. The King expects a full report and Richelieu will take credit if he gets a chance.”

“Credit for starting the fire or ending it?” Aramis asked.

“I didn’t hear that Aramis,” their Captain said as he strode out of the room, closing the door behind him.

**oOo**

Later:

“It seems Madame Charbonneau’s house is saved, but the one next door was not so fortunate,” d’Artagnan reported.

“Did the tavern survive?” Athos ventured.

“It did.”

“And the saddlery?”

“Alas, no.”

“Unfortunate. We had quite a large order with him,” Athos said sadly.

“Nor, the bakery.”

“That is a shame. Porthos had a large order with him.”

He moved to the window and released the blankets from the shutters; opening them to let in some light. Aramis and d’Artagnan joined him to look out of the window at their guard on the wall. Seeing them, he gave them a wave.

All was under control, it seemed.

The danger was passed.

d’Artagnan moved around the room, taking down the rest of the blankets and throwing the shutters open, though the smell of the smoke lingered heavily in the air.

Hearing a grunt and a curse behind them, as light spilled into the room, they all turned around, and were met by the sight of Porthos attempting to sit up. They rushed over to stop him, settling him back down.

Sniffing the air, he turned up his nose.

“I ‘ope that’s not my breakfast burnin’” he growled.

“No, it isn’t, my dear Porthos,” Aramis replied. “But we may have to find you a new baker.”

**oOo**

Thanks for reading! Another Infirmary Talks coming soon.

* Madame Charbonneau’s roof was the subject of a chat Aramis had with Athos at the end of “The Spaniard,” the first of the Infirmary Talks. 


	5. Madame Charbonneau's Roof Tiles

**Aramis and Athos:**

Aramis was nowhere to be found.

No-one had seen him all morning, and duty was calling. After a thorough search, Athos finally found him ensconced in the Infirmary. He was perched on a stool trying to examine a deep cut to the top of his scalp in a small mirror; a bloody cloth sat on the table in front of him.

“How did this happen?” Athos enquired, frowning.

He strode over and stood behind Aramis, so that he could watch his friend’s face in the mirror as the tale unfolded.

Aramis glanced at Athos’s stern reflection, obviously debating what to say; before deciding that the truth was probably the best policy. It would only come out anyway, he thought. Athos disliked deception; although he was not adverse to it _himself,_ if called for. 

Aramis therefore set aside the convoluted elaboration he had concocted on his way back to the Garrison, should he be asked.

He took a deep breath, before catching Athos's eye and almost at once veering in a completely different direction.

Well, surely a _little_ elaboration would not go amiss.

Sustained in the line of duty," he muttered, trying to sqaure his shoulders whilst squinting into the mirror.

"And what particular duty would that be?" Athos enquired patiently, waiting for the subterfuge to issue forth.

"A duty we all hold most dear; assisting one of the residents of our fair city," Aramis replied, warming to his tale.

"And what _resident_ in particular?"

"No-one you would know."

"Try me."

Aramis sighed, regretting his decision to follow this more dubious path.

“I was assisting Madame Charbonneau to clear up after the fire,” Aramis mumbled, “and a roof tile fell on my head.” *

Aramis risked another look in the mirror and sure enough, the eyebrow was raised.

“One of the tiles you are so fond of?” came the quiet retort.

“Not so much now.”

Athos reached forward. He was not known for his delicacy when examining wounds and his fingers probed his friend’s head without mercy.

Aramis attempted to get away from him, but decided against physicality, in his current condition.

“Let me see,” Athos chided, sternly.

“Can you not do it from across the room?”

Athos continued to probe, shifting hair this way and that; and then he sucked in his breath.

“What?” Aramis cried, still trying to see the damage in the mirror.

Athos looked down at his reflection in the mirror and frowned. He was looking decidedly worried.

“What!!” Aramis cried again, becoming alarmed.

“One moment,” Athos said, as he probed further; eliciting a hiss from his patient. Aramis then felt two hands placed comradely on his shoulders.

“Your hair will need to be shaved so that the wound can be stitched,” Athos replied, holding his friend’s enquiring gaze in the mirror.

He watched impassively as the familiar brown eyes widened in alarm.

Aramis was horrified.

“That will be make me the laughing stock of the Garrison!” he exclaimed; obviously mortified.

“Wear your hat.”

“I cannot wear my hat all the time! You’re the strategist - think of something!”

“A solution escapes me and you are bleeding all over the floor.”

“You said that too quickly. You didn’t even try to think of a solution!”

“There is only one.”

“I refuse to shave my head!”

“Monks shave their heads.”

“At the back! I could almost bear that! But not on the top! And certainly not if it is _you_ doing the shaving!”

“I was thinking, Serge.”

“SERGE?!!”

“He is deft, is he not, with vegetables and the like?”

“He has the hands of a blacksmith!!” Aramis almost shouted.

“And yet, you continue to bleed on the floor.”

“My apologies, I am sure!”

Athos sighed.

“This is getting us nowhere, Aramis. Is this likely to heal on its own?” Athos asked, waving his hand vaguely over Aramis’s head and now sounding terribly bored by the whole thing.

Aramis tried to examine it once more, thinking also of the amount of hair he may lose around the cut to facilitate the needle. However, he could not quite see it in the mirror.

“Of course not,” he muttered. “It will need stitching,” he conceded.

“Do you have a headache?”

“Only since you arrived.”

“I will fetch the razor.”

Aramis sat down heavily on a nearby bed, defeated.

“And your hat,” Athos added over his shoulder as he strode through the door.

He did not tell Aramis that his hair did not need cutting in the least; the position of the wound being within a natural parting, once the hair was swept aside.

He closed the door and strode purposefully down the corridor, a small smile playing on his lips and a slight spring in his step. Aramis had often told them that head wounds bled copiously. It was Athos’s considered opinion that Aramis would live.

However, Athos was never slow in seizing an opportunity; it would do Aramis no harm to temper his vanity.

Nor to realise how gullible he could sometimes be.

Athos returned with the razor, which was now entirely for show; unbeknown to the unsuspecting miserable man currently sitting with his head propped up by one hand; a fresh cloth pressed to the offending wound with the other.

He laid the razor with some gravitas on the scrubbed infirmary table, where all such instruments of torture were laid out in their hour of need.

“But my hair is my best feature!” Aramis insisted - rather desperately, Athos thought - as Aramis stared at the implement now laid out in its full glory.

Athos dipped his chin and gave him The Stare.

Aramis glared back. “One of them,” he added defiantly.

Athos continued to stare.

“Your modesty does you credit,” he finally uttered. “Have you quite finished?” 

“What’s your hurry?” Aramis grumbled.

“We are on guard duty at the Palace at noon.”

Aramis did a quick calculation.

“Inside or out?” he asked, nervously.

“Outside.” 

Aramis breathed a sigh of relief;

“Good, I can wear my hat.”

Vanity it seemed, was a trait that was just too strong for Aramis to overcome, Athos sighed to himself.

Regretfully he knew that, in Aramis’s case, so was revenge.

He would have to keep his wits about him in the days to come. However, it had been worth it. He would tell Aramis the truth of it soon.

He picked up a clean cloth and filled a bowl with water and slowly ambled across.

After all, he was in no hurry; they had until noon.

**oOo**

**A/N:** *Madame Charbonneau’s roof was the subject of a chat Aramis had with Athos at the end of “The Spaniard,” the first of the Infirmary Talks; and in “The Fire.”

Thanks for reading! More Infirmary Talks soon.


	6. One Day's Delay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One day late; too early to send out a search party. Help comes from an unlikely quarter.

**Athos and Aramis:**

“Where are they?!” Porthos muttered as he looked around the courtyard.

He and d’Artagnan had been on their own two-man mission. Returning at noon, they had handed over their horses to Jacques, who didn’t meet their eyes; scurrying off before he could be engaged in conversation. d’Artagnan had thought it was merely shyness, or a desire to please, but looking over his shoulder he saw Treville standing on his balcony, hands braced on the balustrade as he always did. But in contrast to Jacques, Treville held his gaze.

d’Artagnan nudged Porthos and nodded toward their Captain and as soon as Porthos saw Treville’s face he was barrelling up the stairs, d’Artagnan a few paces behind.

At the top of the stairs, both Musketeers stopped and faced Treville at a distance of some yards, but there was no mistaking the look on his face. Or the hollow look in his eyes. Treville was often difficult to read, but not this time.

Not this time.

**oOo**

“They were due back this time yesterday,” d’Artagnan said, looking from Treville to Porthos.

Porthos turned back toward the stairs.

“Porthos, where do you think you’re going?” Treville said wearily. He had not slept much last night. It had been a precarious mission and he had thought carefully about who he would send.

“Where do you think?!” Porthos snapped.

“I don’t know where they are – now,” Treville replied. “I gave them three routes back, in case they were followed.”

“So any one of three routes back,” d’Artagnan summarised.

“Three routes back from where, exactly?” Porthos growled.

**oOo**

Aramis was aware of the clash of steel and had a brief thought that he was in the middle of a maelstrom. He was on the ground, with no remembrance of dismounting nor landing violently, though he had obviously done both.

Lying on his side, through a dark red haze he saw boots that came too close; throwing dust in his face. He attempted to pull himself up; reaching to wipe his eye and clear his vision. He had no co-ordination; his limbs would not do his bidding and his hand came away bloody. Through impaired vision he stared, trying to make sense of his predicament.

A furious fight was clashing around him, although it seemed to be playing out in slow motion. He clung to the sight of his brother, who was twisting and reaching and turning and yelling. He knew there was a name for each intricate move Athos was so expertly executing, despite being so outnumbered, but he could not think of them at the moment. It was all he could do to stay conscious. That was all the support he could give. He hoped Athos would understand.

Then, it was over and silence descended.

Aramis was suddenly aware of his own harsh breathing, filling the clearing. He managed to lift his head and became aware of his bloodied hand once more as he made a futile attempt to push himself up.

At the movement, Athos turned toward him, and smiled, glad to see him alive. Aramis watched as he raised his arm to resheath is sword whilst holding his gaze; no doubt assessing his injuries. Aramis could not shout, could not warn him of the man at his feet who had grasped his sword. His eyes widened in horror as the man surged up and pierced Athos under his arm, the blade going deep. Athos whirled automatically, his sword still tight in his hand and the man fell in a heap; head almost cleaved from his shoulders.

Aramis could only watch through tear-filled eyes as Athos sank with a sigh to his knees. Still too far apart, they shared an agonised look.

Across the clearing, Athos held his gaze as Aramis closed his eyes and sank into oblivion.

**oOo**

“It shouldn’t take this long to get back,” d’Artagnan said what everyone was thinking.

“It’s only one day’s delay,” Treville said. “It’s too soon to panic,” he added, despite the fear beginning to coil in his stomach.

“I ain’t panicking. But I ain’t hanging around here much longer.”

Treville was as anxious as his men and two hours later, he had organised three rescue parties to cover the three possible routes back. Porthos and d’Artagnan formed one of them.

Before they could set off, there was a cry sent up from one of the guards that a lone horse was approaching.

Very slowly.

**oOo**

“It’s Athos’s horse,” d’Artagnan said quietly as they all gathered outside the archway, watching Roger’s steady, measured approach.

People had lined up to lined up and now started to gather and walk with him, knowing that this was something special.

d’Artagnan took a step forward, but Porthos held his arm firmly.

“Leave ‘im. A few more minutes won’t hurt.”

Sure enough the horse detected d’Artagnan’s intention and threw his great head back; his eyes wild. He was not about to relinquish his cargo just yet. He had not yet reached his destination. Despite d’Artagnan’s experience with horses, he did take a step back; unwilling to challenge the beast. Unwilling to unsettle the riders.

For the horse bore two riders.

**oOo**

Earlier:

The rope that bound them together did its work. It had cost Athos much in energy and pain as he struggled to get a confused Aramis up into the saddle, before climbing up himself. Pulling his brother’s arms around him, he held the rope in both his hands and threw it back over his shoulders, capturing them both, but opening his wound further in the event. Tying the rope across his stomach, anchoring them both together, he placed Aramis’s hands on the rope and folded his fingers around it.

“Hold on tight, Aramis,” he whispered. “We are going home.”

On the word, “home,” he dug his knees into Roger’s flanks and said no more. The horse turned about and seemed to take stock, before moving gracefully forward at a slow but steady walking pace; one he would keep up all the way back to the city.

They walked that way through the evening and continued into the night. They would be one day late in returning, but not late enough for Treville to send out a search party. Feeling Aramis’s weight at his back, there was no time to lose. He had a grave wound of his own and had to keep his wits about him if they were to get back.

With his wound padded with linen torn from his shirt and his arm clamped to his side, Athos dare not let go of the reins; held tightly in his right hand.

Roger walked on.

Athos kept an eye on the constellations, but he soon realised he had no need to; the horse knew the way.

Aramis’s hands had long since fallen away and the weight of his forehead pressing between his shoulder blades was the only indication now of his presence. His own head was too heavy now to lift, allowing him only a view of the earth that passed beneath them. They were entirely at the mercy of the stallion which continued to make its steady way forward. Dawn finally came, and the sun warmed him a little after a cool night.

He gradually became aware of familiar noises around him as they made their way through the city gates; the horse still needing no direction, save from the knowledge of the continued presence of its two riders. The cobbles became familiar as they passed beneath them and the occasional face of a child came into his limited view; pulled swiftly back by an anxious parent. Soon trader’s tables slipped by, seen through one eye, as he rested his forehead on the neck of the great horse; half his face buried in its mane.

And then, the noise stilled and all he could hear was the steady clip of the horse’s hooves as the people seemed to stop. He was passing lines of them; they were all looking up at him – as he looked down on them. Some reached out to gently to touch the horse, occasionally his booted foot; but no-one stopped his progress; watching respectfully as two Musketeers passed by, making their way home.

**oOo**

Awaiting them outside the Garrison archway, they all watched the great horse slowly making its way along the perimeter wall, flanked by a line of people on each side.

“Musketeers incoming!” the guard shouted, and Treville was down his stairs and barking orders.

Everyone seemed transfixed by the sight before them as the horse turned and passed under the archway, coming to a halt in the centre of the courtyard.

It scraped its front right hoof twice over the ground, before stilling completely.

Porthos reached out and took the reins from Athos’s gloved hand. His other hand reached up to swipe the mop of unruly hair from the still, pale face hanging low on the horse’s neck. Without taking his eyes from Athos’s face, he spoke;

“d’Artagnan, cut the rope.”

While d’Artagnan pulled out his knife, Treville had men go to each side of the horse ready to pull the riders off, on his order.

Porthos was startled then as Athos spoke to him, but did not open his eyes;

_“Next to the tree ....”_

Then he started to slide and Porthos caught him and they both went slowly down to the ground.

Aramis was lifted down next and the extent of their injuries became apparent.

Treville crouched down to check both his unconscious men, before lifting his eyes to Porthos and shouting out an order to the men behind him;

“Infirmary, now!”

**oOo**

Later, d’Artagnan asked what Athos meant by the words he had uttered: _“Next to the tree.”_

“It’s a spot in the cemetery that Aramis covets,” Porthos replied quietly, not meeting his eyes.

**oOo**

Athos chose to wake three hours after midnight. 

Porthos was sitting on a chair between his bed and the next. He had just closed his eyes and had jerked upright as he felt himself falling asleep. Stretching, he looked around the room and then at Athos; and met green eyes looking back at him.

Porthos leant forward.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

“I’m sorry ...” Athos said, reaching out his hand and grabbing Porthos’s shirt.

Porthos frowned, looking down at the hand that was twisting his shirt. He put his hand over the agitated fingers and squeezed.

“What are you sorry about, brother?”

“Aramis.” He replied plaintively. “I tried, Porthos. They threw a rock and he was thrown to the ground. I fought them off and then I got him on my horse.”

His words were tumbling out, aided by the heat that was radiating off him. 

“Yeah, we all saw that,” Porthos replied, patting his hand.

Before Porthos could still him, he began again.

“He died at my back.”

The hitch in his words broke Porthos’s heart, and completely took the air from his lungs. Recovering, he reached forward, pulling Athos’s face toward him.

“No, no, Athos. He’s not dead! Look ...”

Porthos turned and then looked over his shoulder, the chair scraping across the stone flagstones.

“He’s over there, brother,” Porthos said.

Athos looked past him at the cot on the far wall, where Aramis lay on his back, unmoving; his head bandaged.

Athos tried to sit up, staring across the room. Porthos put his hand on his chest to stop him.

“Stay still, you almost died yerself,” he said. “And ‘e wouldn’t like that; not after all the trouble you took to get yerselves home.”

“He’s alive?”

“Yeah, so we won’t be needing that tree for a long while yet.” Porthos raised his eyebrows as he watched the emotions pass over Athos’s face. It was an unaccustomed sight, as were the tears that filled his eyes.

“I thought he was dead.”

Porthos squeezed his hand.

“Just a dead weight at your back, is all. You gonna let go of me now?” 

Athos looked back at Porthos and followed his gaze down, to see his hand twisted in his shirt.

“It’s me best shirt.”

Athos let out a half-laugh, half-sob and released his hand, smoothing the linen down in two strokes before his hand fell to the mattress and his eyes slipped shut.

Porthos wiped his thumb across his brother’s too-warm cheek, drying the moisture that lay in the corner of his eye.

He hoped that now Athos knew his brother lived, his healing would follow. 

**oOo**

Some hours later, Aramis woke to the sight of Treville and d’Artagnan in shirt-sleeves trying to subdue a fevered patient across the room. Porthos had his back to him, sitting slumped on a chair, watching.

“Porthos?” he said, and the man turned and hurried over.

“Sshhh, lay still,” Porthos said, “You’ve got a head injury.”

“Athos ...I’m sorry,” Aramis let out a sob; staring at Porthos in anguish and reaching for his hand.

“Sshhh,” Porthos murmured again, “What about?” he asked gently.

“I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t move. I watched him ... die.”

Porthos leant forward and squeezed his hand.

“No, Aramis ... he ain’t dead, brother.”

“I saw him fall!” Aramis said, confused.

“He didn’t die. He brought you back.”

“What? How?”

“I’ve got no idea ‘ow he did it, but he got you both back. Him and Roger."

“Where is he?” Aramis said, trying to sit.

Porthos realised then that Aramis couldn’t see the patient they had been struggling with.

“That’s ‘im over there, lost in a fever,” Porthos said gently.

“What?!” Aramis cried, looking across at Treville and d’Artagnan, working to keep the man still.

Aramis watched their efforts and saw how they struggled to keep him still but were giving him nothing to combat it.

“Cold compresses!” Aramis said, grabbing at Porthos’s arm. “Where limb meets body,” he said shaking his sleeve. “Herbs ... in the chest,” he added, pointing at the large box by the window.

He fell back against the pillow then exhausted, but Porthos was moving quickly to carry out the first of his instructions. Aramis watched as cold wet cloths were put on either side of Athos’s neck, under each arm and at his groin.

“And ankles,” he called out from across the room. “That helps too.”

Next, the herbs were pummelled and steeped as per his instructions.

“What injuries?” Aramis managed to ask next, after they had managed to give Athos some the herb infusion.

“Sword wound under his arm. Lemay has stitched it. It looks clean.”

“When?”

“Two days ago.”

“What?!”

“Two days ago, Athos came back with the two of you tied together on Roger.”

“Two days?”

The memory stirred then; watching Athos sink to his knees and then snatches of being pulled onto the horse. At what cost to Athos with his injury? Then, his head pressed into Athos’s back as they made their way back, through the twilight and then the dark night, until he could hold his head up no longer, and he remembered no more, until waking to this nightmare.

He watched as they had made Athos as comfortable as they could; all of them exhausted.

Porthos returned to his side.

“We’ve done all we can,” Aramis said. “We must wait now.”

Porthos gave him water. Aramis had refused help until they had followed his instructions to completion. Now, he succumbed to the headache and exhaustion that was overpowering him. 

“You sleep now. We’ve got you both,” Porthos said, scrubbing his hands over his face.

“You rest too,” Aramis said, watching him, before his eyes fell shut and he fell into a deep sleep.

**oOo**

He woke later and lay listening to Athos, as Treville, d'Artagnan and Porthos continued to apply cold compresses. It was less frenetic than earlier though, but Porthos still had to prevent him leaving his bed and taking charge.

In the early hours, it suddenly went quiet and they held their breath, until Treville announced the crisis had passed. The three men took advantage of the empty beds and only woke when Serge brought food.

The next few days were exhausting for Porthos.

When Athos was awake, he asked about the sleeping Aramis.

When Aramis woke, he asked about the sleeping Athos.

It would have been useful to have them awake at the same time, but Porthos was just glad to have them both back and set d’Artagnan on watch between the two of them, so that he could get some food and help Treville in the running of the Garrison.

**oOo**

Finally, when they were alone in the large room and both awake, Aramis called Athos’s name.

Athos rolled his head to the right.

“Right here,” he called back.

They talked briefly about their struggle in the clearing.

“I thought you were dead,” Aramis said.

After a moment, Athos answered.

“I thought you were.”

“You brought me back,” Aramis smiled.

“Porthos tells me you did the same for me,” Athos replied.

They smiled at each other. There was nothing more to say.

Watching unseen in the doorway, Porthos and d’Artagnan smiled too.

**oOo**

Later, as Aramis slept and d’Artagnan sat quietly with Athos:

“He didn’t remember the journey back?” Athos asked him.

“No, just you sinking to your knees and saying good-bye with your eyes.”

“He said that?”

d’Artagnan nodded. “You’ll have to teach me this silent language you all use.”

Athos looked at d’Artagnan, who was staring at him; a range of emotions passing over his face.

“I think you have it already,” he murmured. 

**oOo**

And if they both then ran d’Artagnan ragged over the next few days, he didn’t seem to mind.

“You do realise, they’re playin’ you,” Porthos said, watching him fetch for one and then carry for another.

“They don’t know I know, but, yes I do,” the young man replied with a smirk. “They’ll be here for a few days yet - I’m planning my retribution. You in?”

“You bet,” Porthos chuckled; clapping him on the back.

“We’ll make a well-rounded Musketeer of you before you know it,” he smiled.

As he walked back across the room, he looked from Aramis to Athos and threw his head back and laughed.

They both looked at each other before eyeing him suspiciously.

“You Gents ‘ungry?” Porthos asked, innocently, winking at d’Artagnan.

**oOo**

Thanks for reading! More Infirmary Talks coming soon.


	7. This Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is an expansion on a scene from "A Marriage of Convenience," in Series 2. We all saw that terrible scene where Treville was shot and only Lemay's expertise saved him ...

**Treville and Athos:**

Athos had stood rigid at the end of the table as Treville roared in pain.

Aramis was calm, doing what he could as Lemay and Constance arrived.

“I have some practice with musket wounds,” Aramis had offered, when they discovered there was no exit wound.

“I bow to your experience,” Lemay had replied.

Still Athos stood, waiting for orders.

He could not tear his eyes away, the only support he could give to Treville, as he continued to writhe and gasp.

Porthos was beside him, equally rooted to the spot but free, he suspected, of the emotions warring within Athos.

“Hold him!”

An order given and he could now move. He could do what was required of him.

He and Porthos moved in sync.

Porthos was deeply concerned, finding it difficult to watch; but he was not riven with guilt.

For that is what Athos felt when he recalled those final words Treville had spoken to him in the yard, before the Captain had headed off to the Rue Jacob to collect the King’s gift for the Princess;

“It is you who should have been a politician; I never had time for such games. The Regiment will need a new Captain soon. I could recommend you.”

Athos had not replied. He could not contemplate it; for Treville had been stripped of that honour. He had seen his whole life slip away from him on the whim of a king whose petulance at being denied his wish for a new First Minister had sought the cruellest form of revenge; to take away that which was held so dear.

Treville had been saddened. His other emotions - for Athos knew there were many - held tightly within him. He had been worn down by his monarch.

Sadness was what remained.

Then, the last words Treville had spoken to him;

_“I’m finished here. It’s time you all accepted it.”_

And now this. Gunned down in the street by an unknown assailant.

In the end, Lemay had brought his skill to bear. 

Once the bullet was removed by Aramis, all was not right. Treville began to gasp for air as his lungs seemed to refuse to work.

This was beyond Aramis’s skill, freely admitted, and Lemay took charge.

“I need him on his back!”

And so they turned him and held his legs.

Always one for acquiring new knowledge, Lemay had produced a tube and had drained the fluid that had compromised his lung. Treville had at last pulled in air.

Only then, could Athos move his feet and follow Porthos in search of the would-be assassin.

They had found evidence that Princess Louise was not who she purported to be, if evidence of her portrait - the gift Treville was to collect - was anything to go by. 

Francesco and the woman-imposter were now dead, and the Council Members were safe.

The rest could wait.

**oOo**

Now, Athos sat in the corner of the room in the infirmary, watching Treville breathe. 

“Athos, get some rest.”

“I am fine.”

“He wouldn’t want you to exhaust yourself.

“Once he wakes.”

“After he wakes, we will move him to his own bed and you can then clutter up his office, my friend.”

The attempt at humour failed.

Athos was closed down.

Impenetrable.

“You’ve been here all night,” Aramis persisted.

Silence.

Aramis did not want to consider having two patients to care for.

**oOo**

Athos could not order his thoughts.

Treville was a constant. Treville was his driving force.

Treville was a hardened soldier. When he raised his voice, he was a force to be reckoned with.

Athos knew subservience only under _this_ man, and his king.

No-one else.

_This_ man; who had once held his future in his hands when he himself could see no future.

_This_ man; who could have rubbed those hands together and condemned him to dust; flinging that dust away on a wind of ambivalence.

_This_ man; who had honour and lived and breathed duty. Who loved France and who loved his men.

_This_ man; who they strove to emulate and to please.

This man; who now unknowingly held his future in his hands once more; lying twixt this world and the next.

It was a toss of a coin now that would decide Treville’s fate. The same turn of events that would decide his own.

Perhaps, at some point in the future, Athos could accept Treville’s death.

But not now.

Not now.

Athos could not order his thoughts.

And so, he withdrew.

He became a fortress that only Treville’s survival could breech.

**oOo**

“Want me to slug ‘im?” Porthos had offered during the second day.

“No!” cried Aramis, as they both stood on the balcony watching their friend through the window.

He looked at Porthos and smiled sadly.

“Not yet.”

**oOo**

Athos sat looking at the floor now; the sight of his Captain, immobile and as white as the sheets that covered him, unnerved him. The stone flagstones at his feet were becoming familiar to him. Each crack studied intensely.

“If you have stopped willing him to wake with your stare, you might like to turn your eyes to that,” Aramis said, passing him a book he had retrieved from Athos’s room.

Athos recognised it, running his fingers over the cover. He had owned it for several months but had not yet started to read it.

“Better than a slug, I guess,” Porthos had grunted, when Aramis had proposed the distraction.

**oOo**

The book became a lifeline.

He appeared to lose himself in the pages, afraid to look at the man in the bed and unable to engage with his friends. He raised his head only when Aramis stood in front of him, demanding answers to his enquiries, expecting and receiving only monosyllabic answers; mostly in the negative.

Athos would leave the room occasionally, striding unspeaking out through the door. 

The first time, Aramis found him in Treville’s office, working through the papers and documents requiring attention. Orders were issued and once the Garrison was running smoothly, he would return and take his place wordlessly next to their Captain’s bed.

The second time, Porthos found him in the stable, brushing Roger with a vigour that may not have been entirely appreciated by the horse.

Later, a bowl of stew found itself thrust into his hands. He grunted his thanks, but then sat looking at it until it congealed and became inedible.

A glass of wine fared better.

Aramis made him help, changing sheets and bandages. At first Athos had baulked at the idea of such care, but an unspoken conversation between them ensured his co-operation and he then continued, when required, unbidden.

All the time, he returned to the pages of the book.

Occasionally his eyes flicked to ensure his Captain still lived.

**oOo**

When night fell, he closed the shutters and lit candles.

When dawn broke, he opened the shutters and cleared the guttered candles away.

The touch of a well-meaning hand on his shoulder made him flinch.

Food was not welcomed, nor conversation.

Company was tolerated, as others sought to also keep a vigil.

His face was only visible when he stood and left the room; otherwise it was turned to the pages of his book.

Gradually, they let him be.

**oOo**

The Third Evening:

All was quiet; the only sound was the steady turn of pages.

“Is it a good book?” a familiar voice whispered.

Startled, Athos looked up, and was met with a weary steel blue gaze.

“I cannot say, Captain,” Athos replied quietly, closing the book and putting it aside;

“I have only read the first sentence.”

**oOo**

Thanks for reading! More Infirmary Talks soon.


	8. Heart Over Head

**8\. HEART OVER HEAD**

**Aramis, Porthos, Athos and d’Artagnan:**

“What was he thinking?!”

“Don’t think ‘e does that.”

“He must do it sometimes, mon ami.”

“Probably when no-one’s lookin’”

“I am here, you know!”

“Yes, as luck would have it, you are, my young friend.”

“More by good luck than management, I believe.”

“It wasn’t my fault.”

“No-one said it was. We are merely discussing the outcome.”

“And the consequences.”

“Consequences???”

“There’s always consequences. Ain’t no way round it.”

“Incapacity tends to have an accumulating effect in a variety of circumstances such as these.”

“Incapacity?!”

“Hmmm.”

“But I’m not incapacitated!”

“Not yet, no.”

“What??!

“Very often, I find, mon ami, that the cure is worse than the actual affliction.”

“I’ve got an affliction??”

“You are young, you will recover. Given time.”

_“There’s nothing wrong with me!”_

“It is not for you to decide. Higher powers are now at work here.”

“Higher powers?”

“You have passed into the realm of uncertainty.”

“Look, there’s _really_ nothing wrong with me!”

“Then why are we here, discussing your affliction and subsequent incapacity?”

“Because HE dragged me in here!”

“’Course I did. First port o’ call in such circumstances. Don’t blame me if it falls off.”

“It may still, my friend. Remember ....?”

“Oh, yeah... nasty.”

“Can we hurry this along, gentlemen? We have work to do.”

“Only if ‘e promises not to do it again.”

“It is a clear case of heart over head. If he can master that, he may have a chance.”

“You’re all mad!”

“There is still the matter of the consequences.”

“We must pray for a miracle, brothers.”

“Pfft.”

“It was you who brought up Higher Powers!”

“Oh, who has the time.”

“Still can’t go til ‘e promises.”

“That would certainly put an end to the matter.”

“Otherwise, it could go on indefinitely.”

“Indeed.”

“And I, for one, have an appointment this evening.”

“What am I promising again?”

“Yer promisin’ not to do it again, lad.”

“I _promise_ on my honour, I will not do it again!”

“Atta boy.”

**oOo**

“Think he’ll do it again?”

“Probably.”

**oOo**

Thanks for reading!


	9. Hostages

**Athos and Porthos:**

It was strange, looking down and seeing a knife buried in your chest.

It was surprisingly painless, Athos thought.

When he lifted his eyes, the man was still in front of him; staring.

He looked horrified.

And then, he was gone; lost in the crowds.

Athos was aware that things had slowed around him. People had stopped to stare, of course they had. But it seemed his thinking had slowed down as well, and he had no plan. Soon, his legs would buckle and he would lie untended on the cobblestones, people stepping over him. This was Paris, there was rarely time to help a stranger; even a King’s Musketeer.

Especially a King’s Musketeer, now that the King had raised taxes again.

He left the knife alone. He knew that much.

Anyway, the blood thumping loudly in his ears was distraction enough and sure enough, his legs appeared to be failing him now.

He had resigned himself to collapse when a hand landed on the back of his neck.

“Come on, Musketeer, move along. You’re ‘olding everyone up!”

_Porthos._

If he could just stay on his feet until Porthos realised what had happened ...

There! He was suddenly spun around, and he saw Porthos’s smiling face come into his view. He watched Porthos’s face twist and felt his hands grab his arms, and then ... then he could follow his legs and fall.

But Porthos did not let him fall.

Or, more correctly, he went down with him.

The world twisted and fell away and he was staring up at the sky then.

He didn’t pay attention to the sky nearly as much as he should, he thought.

It was such a shade of blue this morning.

He must thank Porthos, he thought, and looked for him.

Somewhere above him, he caught the glint of the earring in Porthos’s ear. He was looking away, shouting. He wanted to tell Porthos not to move so much. It was painful now. But his mouth was full of ...

_Oh._

He looked down at the knife still protruding from his chest.

He hoped no-one tried to remove it until Aramis told them to.

**oOo**

The young man watched as the dark-skinned Musketeer took control. He saw how he lowered his comrade to the ground; how he grabbed a boy and told him – ordered him – to run to the Garrison for help. 

He had killed a Musketeer. His debt would be cancelled now. 

So, why didn’t he feel elated?

He had not asked questions when he had been given the ultimatum to kill one of the King’s own guards. Too defeated by his own stupidity. But he had not intended to kill anyone. He had been in turmoil all morning about how to extricate himself from this awful predicament. But he knew the men would be watching him and he held his knife close to him as his thoughts fell into turmoil. 

He had seen the blue-cloaks on patrol, earlier. Only two of them. 

Twice, he had moved toward them, only to fall back again. 

The third time, he turned his back and walked away. 

Stopping to put the knife back inside his jacket, he felt the sweat drip down his neck. Unsure of what to do now; how to get out of the city, away from his debtors; his mind worked furiously.

Then, everything changed in an instant.

The Musketeer had come up behind him and put his hand on him, and he had reacted, thinking it was one of them. In the end, he had done as they wanted anyway, despite his misgivings. 

He had looked into the Musketeer’s eyes.

And he had run.

**oOo**

Later, as he hung around and watched, he discovered the soldier was not dead.

He needed to be dead!

He would need to finish the job. Perhaps he could salvage this.

The Musketeer had seen him and he could identify him. He had looked at him for long enough.

Why had he looked at him like that?! 

With such sadness.

**oOo**

“Clear that table!”

“Careful! Steady now, don’t drop ‘im.”

“Athos? ... Can you hear me?”

“How long has he been like this?”

“Not that long. He wouldn’t let go. Just hung on. Just lay there, all quiet.”

“Porthos ...he will be alright, mon ami,”

“Will ‘e?”

Aramis was staring at the knife.

“You gonna take that out?”

“Aramis?”

“I dare not; Lemay’s on his way.”

**oOo**

That seemed a long time ago.

They had been right not to attempt to remove the knife. For when they did, all hell broke loose.

The moment Lemay’s hand took hold of the knife, Athos had come alive.

Lemay had stepped back, involuntarily; fearful of the raging man. 

Porthos and Aramis struggled to hold him, until there was a mutual look between them and Porthos had executed a controlled fist into his jaw; and they could continue.

The knife wound was deep. The blade had acted as a plug, but once removed, it took a lot of compression for the resultant torrent of blood to ease.

He was still unconscious as the wound was cleaned and packed. Porthos worried that he had hit him too hard, but Aramis stilled him with a kind hand on his chest and Lemay nodded his assurances.Settled in the infirmary, it was now a waiting game.

**oOo**

At some point later, Porthos would wonder why he had left Athos alone.

He wasn’t long, just a quick run to the laundry for fresh sheets.

Athos had been as still as he had been since Lemay had finished. Porthos had urged Aramis to his room to sleep. They had forgotten to bring extra sheets for the night ahead, and Porthos had made a decision; checking all was well before he left the room.

That was all it took.

No-one had seen the man slip in, the regiment too busy on the training ground. He had waited until the dark-skinned one had left the room and then took his chance. Once this Musketeer was dead, he would be free of his debts and his family would be safe. 

Holding his breath, the man pulled the pillow out from under the Musketeer’s head.

He did not wake.

Standing over him, he held the pillow in both hands. 

They said suffocation was quick, but now he had the means in his hands, he hesitated.

What if he struggled?

Although he didn’t look like he had much fight in him. 

“This is your fault,” he muttered, angry at the still man in front of him.

“This is your own damn fault,” he repeated as he stepped forward to drop the pillow on the man’s face.

Suddenly, the door was thrown open and he spun around, hands still holding on to the pillow, now held tightly against his chest; before he dropped it to the floor at his feet and drew out his pistol.

Arms full of linen, Porthos took the scene in and turned blazing eyes on the man.

“Who the ‘ell are you?!” he growled.

“Shut the door.”

The pistol pointed at Athos’s head was incentive enough.

“Move over there.” 

He waved the gun to the other side of the room and Porthos reluctantly did as he was bid; laying the sheets on the table; aware he was bereft of weapons and inwardly cursing himself.

The man dragged a chair across and rammed it under the handle of the door, before turning around.

Porthos took in Athos’s still form.

“You did this?” Porthos ventured, aware of movement outside now, as his fellow Musketeers returned from their training.

“He came up behind me.”

“An’ you’ve come to finish the job,” Porthos snarled.

“He saw me.”

“An’ now I’ve seen you too. You won’t get out of ‘ere alive.”

“I’ve got you now though, haven’t I?”

“I’m not important enough for them to let you go.”

“We’ll see.”

The man seemed to hesitate, before crossing to the window; seeing returning Musketeers now milling around in the yard outside. They hadn’t realised yet that something was happening.

“You ain’t thinkin’ straight,” Porthos said quietly; watching him.

In response the man moved back across the room; gun still held tightly in his hand.

Suddenly the door opened, and Aramis stood there.

Porthos was blocking his view, but he saw a stranger pointing a gun at Athos, and he stilled.

“Porthos?” 

The man stepped toward Athos and put the barrel of his gun to his temple.

Porthos stepped aside, giving Aramis a full view and carefully looked over his shoulder at his friend.

“S’alright, Aramis. Hold your peace. Got a situation ‘ere.”

“Athos?” Aramis whispered; the stranger forgotten until he had an answer.

Porthos’s eyes flicked to Athos.

“Still out,” he replied. “Don’t worry; I won’t let anythin’ ‘appen to ‘im.”

“Out!” the man shouted at Aramis.

Aramis stood his ground, until Porthos nodded his head.

“And shut the door!” the man yelled.

Still Aramis hesitated ...

“SHUT THE DAMNED DOOR!” he yelled again, and Aramis turned, sharing a look with Porthos;

_We're near._

Aramis backed out and closed the door.

Outside, he put his forehead to the door, breathing heavily.

_Be safe._

**oOo**

Inside, the man motioned Porthos to sit.

“What’s yer name?” Porthos tried, sinking onto the wooden chair.

Silence.

The man stood with his back against the wall. He looked out the window, seeing Musketeers scrambling now, some coming close to the building and standing stationary, waiting.

The alarm had obviously gone up.

He was sweating; but Porthos knew he had to be careful; the man was unstable at best.

“They won’t do anythin’” Porthos said calmly. “Not til we talk.”

“They’ll kill me,” he relied, wildly, before turning and staring at Porthos. “You can get me out.”

“Yeah. I could. Ain’t gonna though.”

“What?”

“I ain’t going anywhere til I know he’s alright.”

The man looked uncomprehending at him.

“He’s my brother.”

**oOo**

Later:

“His name’s Athos,” Porthos said. “If you’re interested.”

The man stared at him, before breaking eye contact and staring at the floor; gun still swinging loosely in his hand.

“Best man I know,” Porthos added, quietly.

**oOo**

Porthos was watching Athos.

“Let me check ‘im,” he said. “Please.” He was relieved when the man nodded.

Porthos picked up the discarded pillow and placed it back under his friend’s head, before gently turning his head to rest comfortably. He checked the bandages on his chest and his heart hitched when he thought how close he had come. Just an inch to the right; or an inch lower ...

Lifting his limp hand, he gave it a squeeze before moving back.

All the time, the man watched him.

Porthos looked across at the stranger, and met his gaze. The man looked away.

There was a gentle knock on the door and Aramis called out once more;

“There is food and wine here.”

“Leave it,” the man called. He moved to the door, opening it slightly and watching as Aramis retreated. He shut the door without collecting the tray that had been left on the floor in the corridor.

“You got family?” Porthos asked, as the man returned to his position against the wall.

The man did not reply, but he straightened and looked away.

“Ah. You got someone, I can tell.”

“What do you know?!” the man sneered, but there was no fire in it.

He could hear footsteps outside in the corridor; he could see men stationed outside the window. The Musketeer who was talking to him looked like a coiled spring, no matter how gently he was speaking to him.

“If you hadn’t, you’d ‘ave just said so.”

Just as he thought the man would remain silent, he spoke.

“Wife,” he said, hardly audible.

“They threaten ‘er? Whoever you’re workin’ for ?”

“Shut up!” the man cried suddenly, and Porthos raised his hands in supplication.

Porthos nodded toward the door.

“Don’t know about you, but I’m ‘ungry. It’s been a long day.”

Porthos kept his hands up and stood carefully.

“You can keep me covered; just let me slide it in.”

Surprisingly, the man agreed, standing back so that he could guard the space.

The door was carefully opened and Porthos crouched and took hold of the tray. Looking to the side, he could see Aramis at the end of the short corridor, and held out a hand for him to stay.

Aramis turned and hit the wall with his fist. 

Porthos wanted this man compliant. He suspected he was as hungry as he was and he needed to talk to him. And to calm him.

“We can help,” Porthos said, gently laying the tray on the table, keeping his hands in clear view all the time. The man was becoming more agitated as time wore on.

The man gave a hollow laugh and looked at Athos.

“After I did this?” he said, waving his gun toward Athos. “If you hadn’t have come back, I would have smothered him and gone.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Porthos said quietly. 

“Why else would I be here!” the man shouted, uncomprehending.

“Porthos?” Aramis called through the door. 

“Just talkin’ Aramis,” Porthos called back.

Once quiet had descended, Porthos turned back to the man.

“Oh, I don’t doubt your intention,” Porthos replied, pursing his lips, “Just your heart ain’t in it. Is it, hmm?”

The man’s eyes suddenly filled up and he wiped his hand across them furiously.

Porthos broke a loaf of bread and held it out. When he saw the man was not going to take it, he put it on the small table close by.

“He’d let you go,” Porthos added, nodding at Athos.

“What?!” the man said, his face screwing up in confusion.

“He’d understand.” 

“How do you know that?” the man said, staring at Porthos in confusion.

“Because I know ‘im. Told ya.”

The man reached out and took the bread. Looking down at it, he laughed bitterly.

“You’re giving me bread. That’s how it started.”

Porthos understood then.

“You couldn’t feed ya family, so you fell in with people who promised you money.”

“How did you know?” the man asked, taking a small bite, before guiltily putting it back on the table.

“That’s ‘ow it always starts. Before you know it, they’ve got ya.”

The man looked at him.

“An’ then the threats start and you’d do anythin’ to protect what’s yours.”

“I thought he was one of them,” the man said then, nodding at Athos. “They told me to kill a Musketeer, but I couldn’t. I saw you patrolling, and I had my knife ready. I just couldn’t do it.”

“So what ‘appened?”

“He came up behind me; I thought he was one of them, come to kill me.”

“So, Athos was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

The realisation of what Porthos said seemed to jolt the man.

“Enough! I have to get out of here!!” he said; raising his pistol once more.

The man turned to look down at Athos, and Porthos took an urgent step forward; fearful now.

_“He’s my brother,”_ he said quietly, heart in his mouth.

“And she’s my wife!” he man growled.

“She wouldn’t want this,” Porthos said fiercely, needing to get the man’s attention away from Athos.

For Porthos had seen his eyes open.

Athos had been staring at him for the past few minutes.

And Porthos had seen his hand move.

Porthos shifted, drawing the man’s attention to him once more, so that they were facing each other.

Very carefully, he looked past the man toward Athos.

He saw Athos raise his hand weakly; behind the man’s back.

Athos counted to three on his fingers slowly and deliberately holding Porthos’s gaze, with unfocused eyes. But that had never stopped Athos before and realising his intention, Porthos gave him a slight nod and took a step forward.

The man stepped back in response, his body now close to Athos’s shoulder.

“You don’t ‘ave to do this,” Porthos pleaded, urgently; throwing the man with his sudden change of tone.

“It’s too late now,” the man said, recovering.

Athos raised one finger, barely moving his hand from the mattress;

_1 ..._

The man raised his gun, pointing it at Porthos now.

“It’s not too late; we can help you,” Porthos said.

A second finger;

_2 ..._

“I’m dead already, you don’t know them!”

_3 ..._

Athos’s hand reached up on the count of three and he grabbed the man’s belt, pulling him off balance.

The gun went off, the noise echoing through the room.

Porthos launched himself and drove the man backwards toward the window.

On impact, the window gave, and the man fell through; straight into the arms of the two musketeers stationed there. Porthos stopped himself from falling through by bracing his hands on either side of the shattered window frame, breathing hard.

“I _do_ know them. Known that sort of my life,” Porthos said, as the man was led away.

He had seen a chink in the man’s armour and he and Athos had worked together to exploit it.

He turned to Athos, and saw his arm hanging over the side of the cot, blood seeping through the bandage. Eyes closed.

“I’d call you a damned fool, but I reckon you saved our lives,” he whispered to the now-unconscious man.

Just then, the door burst open and Aramis was there; taking in Porthos and skidding to Athos’s side in one urgent movement.

**oOo**

Athos's wound was recleaned and repacked. This time, he didn't fight them; secure in the knowledge of who they were and where he was. This time, he was not left alone as he slept.

Two days later Aramis was able to put stitches in, and his recovery began.

Only Porthos had seen what the stranger had intended to do.

Only he had seen him hold the pillow above Athos’s face. 

Only he had seen him hesitate and had heard his story; urged from him by Porthos’s quiet questions.

The man had not pleaded with him. He had not used his failures as an excuse. He had simply been driven by circumstance and desperation and the need to protect his wife. In the end, overwhelmed by what he had done and the odds that were stacked against him, he had lost hope.

Porthos did not discuss it with anyone; waiting to speak to Athos, who had his own tale to tell.

Perhaps, between them, they could determine if the man was worthy of compassion.

It took a man who understood compassion to grant it to others.

Porthos understood it, and he was sure that Athos did too.

Athos also understood despair.

Perhaps that’s what Athos saw that morning in the market, when he had looked into his assailant’s eyes.

**oOo**

Thanks for reading!


	10. If These Walls Could Talk (1)

**10\. IF THESE WALLS COULD TALK (1)**

**2018 - Paris**

Pascal Vernier pulled back the hoarding; just a little – just enough to peer inside.

This had been a prominent building in its time.

In the seventeen century, it had been part of the garrison of King Louis XIII's Musketeers. It had been burnt down, they said, sometime back then but had been rebuilt several times since. Now, it was up for redevelopment again; having fallen into disrepair.

It was an abomination that over recent years it had been neglected so, Pascal thought, for the Musketeers were men who had protected the King and had lived, eaten, slept and probably been fixed up in this building.

If these walls could talk ....

**oOo**

Pascal knew this was illegal; he was trespassing, but he could not let an opportunity like this pass by.

They were a team and so he brought his brothers with him. Not his real brothers, of course, but brothers in all but blood; forged through school and university. They were all working now in successful jobs, but in their spare time they were psychic investigators. Paris was full of fine historic buildings with many a tale to tell. Their “hobby” had started at university and they had gathered some strange findings over the years.

They had formed a Psychic Society during their university life and had even converted a few of their lecturers with their enthusiasm and talks, which were always “sold out” in terms of bums on seats. Some of the “evidence” they had collected had been interesting, to say the least; once teamed with research. The four of them appeared to have a knack for being in the right place at the right time. Some would say that was dubious; others, that they knew what they were doing. Over the years, they had procured enough specialist equipment to back up any findings they offered up. As yet, they had seen nothing tangible, but their audio recordings had left others who were perhaps, more qualified, dumbfounded.

One day, Pascal hoped they would have tangible evidence. Something that could not be refuted. 

Their investigations were always above board and legal; they sought permission and permits for any buildings they entered.

But not this time.

Not with this opportunity.

For Pascal was a distant descendant of the legendary d’Artagnan, whose statue sat in the Place Malesherbes. That is where they had gathered one morning, this modern day brotherhood; and forged their plan. 

Work would soon commence once more on this building. There had been rumblings of strange occurrences when the surveyors had first set foot there. They knew they had just one chance; one attempt to set up their equipment and see what they could find within these walls. For there were still some of the original walls within the footprint of the building. 

And walls could talk.

He was a testament to that.

Perhaps his ancestry would be on his side this time.

**oOo**

So it was that a few days from the construction date, four young men slipped behind the hoarding with backpacks on their shoulders and stood within a long open room to await nightfall. The building had been cleared by the previous occupant, a wine merchant, who used the cellar of the building for storage but had done little else to the building itself. It had been used over the decades by various businesses which had kept the basic structure of the rooms on the ground floor. The upper floors had been added in the eighteenth century and had since been used for accommodation.

But it was __this room, the ground floor room that Pascal was particularly interested in.

He believed it had been the Infirmary. 

If a room could absorb human emotion, it would be such a room.

The others peeled off, three of them heading upstairs as Pascal stepped further into the room.

Now that he was well inside the room, he flicked on the flashlight he had been carrying and swept it around in a wide arc.

There were smaller rooms leading off it which he would investigate later but in the meantime, he set down his backpack and unzipped it. Pulling out his audio equipment, he set to work setting it up. 

There was electricity here, but h e set a battery-powered lamp up next to his working area. He had learned from past experience that power could be cut off suddenly with no warning, once an investigation commenced.

The end of the room was deep in shadow, which was strange, as the windows had been boarded up and no light shone in any other part of the room to cast such darkness at one end. He flicked on his flashlight once more.

The shadows disappeared, but Pascal sucked in his breath when he saw the brickwork there. Untouched it seemed by the four centuries that had passed. The rough bricks and untidy mortar still stood as a testament to that time, and he walked slowly across the room and ran his hands reverently over the dusty surface.

“What tales you must hold, wall,” he whispered, before stepping back and quickly taking out his mobile phone and snapping a photo of the precious wall.

Turning his back to go back to his equipment, he suddenly felt an overwhelming feeling creep over the back of his neck; the hairs prickled as he involuntarily shivered; and he realised that the inky black shadows had fallen once more behind him. Stepping quickly away, he shook himself. He had been in such situations before, but he could not for the life of him remember ever feeling such a mixture of emotions passing through him.

Fear, yes, but something else.

Hearing a sudden noise, he looked up at the ceiling. Something upstairs had fallen over.

“Only me!” he heard Martin shout from above and he smiled to himself and shook his head. Of all of them, Martin was the clumsiest, always falling over his own feet. He was letting his nerves get the better of him.

He went back to his tasks, setting up laser trip beams and switching on his audio equipment.

Still he could not shake off the feeling at his back of ... what was it?

_Tension ...readiness?_

Twice, he turned quickly around, fearing something close; only to be confronted by the black shadows once more.

The third time, he straightened, and turned purposefully around to face that foreboding wall.

“Who’s there?” he murmured, to be met with nothing but silence.

d’Artagnan, I swear if that is you, I fear your opponents for you emit a fearsome aura!” he said quietly to himself as he checked his batteries and and realigned his beams. He could hear the footfalls of his brothers on the floor above, which grounded him somewhat.

Suddenly, he caught a sharpening of the atmosphere. An ominous shift. 

A feeling now that had crystallised into the notion of _being watched._

And then, a smell ...

Chamomile?

The hairs on the back of his arms now rose, as he peered at the back wall; shrouded now in even deeper shadow.

He went to take a step forward but was suddenly frozen in place by the sound of something dropping sharply to the floor.

Then, _rolling ..._

Out of the shadows a small object rolled toward him, bouncing on the stone floor.

It continued to roll until it ran out of momentum, close to his foot.

Bending, he picked it up, frowning.

A small, round, metal object. He suddenly realised what it was.

A musket ball!

Rolling it around in his palm, he stared at it.

Battered, but serviceable.

Lifting his head and looking back to the shadows, he smiled.

“What are you telling me? You are a Musketeer?

The smell became much stronger. Definitely chamomile. And a hint of lavender, perhaps.

“Or a medic?” he whispered, the aroma of herbs stronger now.

“Perhaps both?” he mused.

He flinched as a second object rolled toward him, and he picked up a second musket ball.

_This was amazing._ And a little scary.

Despite the lingering coil of fear in his stomach, a broad grin began to spread across his face.

“Oh. You _were_ both, my friend,” he murmured, turning the ball over in his hand.

Looking around, he saw he still had the place to himself; his friends were still on the upper floor and so he sat down.

“Which one are you? d’Artagnan? I am a descendant of his!” he cried. “On my mother’s side,” he qualified; as if he would be challenged by the shadows.

“Charles de Batz de Castelmore d’Artagnan,” Pascal continued, to the dark corner.

”He was a fine soldier, brought down at the Siege of Maastricht in 1673.”

The silence stretched, and Pascal scoured his mind for more questions.

“Or are you Athos, perhaps? Or Porthos? They could be myths of course; though Dumas is said to have modelled them on others who did live – so you never know,” he gabbled on.

“What about Aramis?” he said suddenly. “The romantic hero?”

At that, something fell once more behind him and rolled across the floor. A third musket ball... Where _were_ they coming from??!

“Ah! Aramis. You sly old dog. What are you doing here? Do you have an assignation? Are you waiting to reunite with your brothers-in-arms? Come to see the building renovated? Apparently this was the infirmary. Lord, what must it have been like then!”

The shadows softened, but he could see nothing. He took out his notebook and began to scribble. As he did so, the aroma of herbs became stronger; together with an overpowering feeling of helplessness. His stomach lurched as a sudden wave of emotions hit him.

_"You_ were a soldier _and_ a medic, Aramis?" Pascal whispered, as the emotions made sense. "Then, you have my respect."

"And what _is_ that smell? Lavender? Is that what you used?"

"What did you have to work with, my friend? No drugs, no anaesthetics. What men you must have been to endure that ..." he trailed off.

The aroma drifted away.

"Are you here to see what I am doing?" Pascal murmured, after a few moments.

“There were tales of you,” he continued. “There are tales still, of Aramis, Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan. There are books, and movies; you would not believe it!”

“But, of course, you do not know what movies are, do you?”

He peered into the shadows, but they were quite dense and revealed nothing.

Still, he felt compelled to continue ...

“Who I am? You must be wondering?”

He was aware of how excited he was now feeling, as his words tumbled out; charged by the musket balls held tight in his hand. The fear was gone. Replaced by air of calm; almost, an _amusement_ in the air as he imagined his “visitor” watching him babble.

“I can tell you that. I can tell you, who I am; who we are! And I can tell you what has happened since you graced this place with your charismatic presence.”

And so, he told him; the shadow in the corner that was there, but was not.

He told him about movies; before he realised how banal that must sound to a man of action.

So he sat back and told him about warfare; of the destruction and power and terrible consequences; he would understand _that._ And of tanks and bombs; which he would not. For who could understand that?

Then, sobered, he told him of medicine and of the leaps that had been made. 

He told him of anaesthetics and prosthetics, of lasers and drugs.

He told him of the advance in communications. He held up his phone to the wall as an example; aware of how ridiculous it seemed, but all his past experiences in searching through buildings had been insignificant to this and he was lost in euphoria.

He was explaining a phone to a shadow!

He had to stop to catch his breath.

Settling, he told the shadow that brotherhood still existed, despite the wars, and was evident in the men who had accompanied him tonight; who were careful and respectful and in awe of the past as they crept through a building, listening; reading the signs; collecting evidence of lives passed.

He told of the plans for the building and that some of the base level would still still preserved. France does respect it's heritage,” he said, “despite what it did to the Monarchy.”

Oh.

And he told him about that too, pulling out his phone once more and looking up the French Monarchy, so that he could get his facts right.

Before he spoke of the Revolution though, he told him about Louis XIV; who he thought was on the throne at the time of the Musketeers; later finding out he came later of course and the blue-cloaked elite soldiers had been formed to protect his father, Louis XIII and thereafter the Dauphin; his young son.

He spoke of the Regency of Anne of Austria, who had ruled until the Dauphin was of age.

He spoke of the great legacy Louis XIV left; making France a leading European power. Of the wars he fought, which defined his foreign policy. How warfare fed his vanity. How Louis had loved flattery and adulation; how he had compelled many members of the nobility to inhabit the lavish Palace of Versailles; thereby pacifying them and consolidating his rule.

All the time he was talking about the Dauphin, the atmosphere had been electric and it had spurred him on.

And for a moment, just one brief heady moment, he thought he caught sight of a booted foot shifting position across the room and the glint of a smile.

He sat back exhausted.

He then raised his hand to his forehead and saluted; a gesture he had _never_ used before, but felt compelled to do so then.

“What are you doing ...?” Martin said behind him, suddenly coming noisily into the room.

“Just having a chat,” Pascal smiled up at him. “I have a lot to tell you.”

He stood and raised his hand once more to salute into the shadowy corner.But the shadows were gone; the dusty brick could now be seen as the dawn approached.

He felt bereft.

Later, when he studied his print-outs, they showed a reading leaping almost off the page at the time of his discussion; and he had smiled and called his friends over. It had been one of the best results they had had in a while. His friends had found nothing upstairs but this more than made up for it.

The three musket balls lay on his desk.

He stared at them throughout the day, reaching out to touch them; to ensure they were real.

He could not sleep.

Tomorrow, Pascal would go back; alone this time.

To talk to _Aramis._

Perhaps there was still time.

“Whatever they do to that place, it will always be yours,” he said, picking up the musket balls and rolling them around in his palm. They had become his most precious possession.

“Yours and your brother’s,” he smiled.

_“All for One; and One for All”_

_oOo_

Thanks for reading!


	11. If These Walls Could Talk (2)

“Why are we doing this again?” d’Artagnan asked as they stood in the doorway, surveying the room.

“It is our penance,” Athos replied, simply.

“What for?”

“Duelling with the Red Guard,” he replied.

“Did we?”

“No, because that would be illegal.”

“It wasn’t duelling,” Athos continued. “It was merely a lesson.”

“A lesson in what?”

“In accepting an invitation to duel.”

“Come again?”

“If they did not accept, we could not be accused of d ... teaching them a lesson.”

“But why the Infirmary? Treville usually directs us to the stables,” Aramis interjected over d’Artagnan’s confusion.

“Who knows? He was in a particularly foul mood this morning,” Athos replied.

“I wouldn’t mind, but I wasn’t even with you,” d’Artagnan complained.

“All for one, my young friend,” Aramis laughed, passing him a broom.

“Just this room, or the other two as well?” Porthos asked, looking around the large room.

The Infirmary comprised one large oblong room for multiple occupancy with two smaller ones, which afforded some privacy to those who needed it. There was also a room that surgeons used, if required; Aramis when not. That room held a large imposing table that always made d’Artagnan shiver to think of the use it had been put to.

“All. Treville was quite clear on the matter.”

“Right,” Athos continued. “Let us have some order here. Aramis – what do we need to do primarily?” he asked, deferring to the medic.

Aramis sighed, looking around. As luck would have it, the infirmary had not been in use of late but that meant the door had been closed on it and attention had been given to other duties.

“Sweeping, airing, scrubbing floors and walls,” he replied. He looked at the ceiling, seeing a few gruesome stains up there.

“And the ceiling,” he added.

They all followed his gaze up there.

“Is that...?” d’Artagnan whispered, before clamping his mouth shut on the word “blood,” and swallowing.

“Porthos,” Aramis turned to their large friend, who was currently rummaging through cupboards. “Was that you?” he said, pointing at the ceiling.

Porthos followed his pointing finger and looked at the brown marks on the plaster over him.

He burst out laughing.

“Yeah, I think that was when you hit something you shouldn’t have; back when you were practisin’”

Aramis placed his hand over his heart and stepped next to Porthos and slung his arm around his shoulder as they both gazed fondly up at the said stain.

Porthos rubbed his thigh absent-mindedly;

“Who knew blood could spurt that far?” he reminisced.

“You could have died, Porthos,” Aramis murmured.

“Yeah, but I didn’t.” Porthos replied. “And you’re much better at it now,” he added, with a glint in his eye.

“You will never get that off,” Athos said, breaking the spell and looking up at the ceiling as he tied his scarf over his face and picked up one of the brooms they had brought with them.

“It looks like a musket,” Aramis mused. “See, the stock and the barrel?”

“Oh yeah. Appropriate,” Porthos laughed as they both gazed at the pattern on the ceiling.

d’Artagnan was busy staring up, twisting his head this way and that. 

“I can’t see it. Looks more like a tree,” he frowned.

Aramis and Porthos both stared a little more, before Porthos waved his hand in an “either or” gesture and Athos brought them back with a sharp rap of his broom on the floor.

“Gentlemen, can I remind you The Wren awaits us when we are done here? Aramis, continue.”

Aramis looked around and scratched his head.

“Well, the beds have been stripped but the mattresses need pummelling and airing. The woodwork needs washing and the cupboards sorting and replenishing.

“Very well,” Athos said, somewhat muffled behind the scarf.

“d’Artagnan, you and Porthos each do the smaller rooms. Open the windows and sweep. Once the dust has settled, mop the floor and wash the walls. Aramis and I will make a start on this room. When you have finished, join us in here; we should be finished by sundown.”

Porthos did not look convinced as they each tied a scarf around their faces. He straightened his bandanna and each set to their tasks.

For a while, all was quiet, save for the sound of four brooms sweeping over stone flagstones. The large room filled with dust and soon, Aramis and Athos were coughing.

“Are we doing this right?” Athos muttered, wandering off to inspect one of the smaller rooms.

Porthos too was struggling against the dust that billowed up at each stroke of his broom.

d’Artagnan though, was busy in the dust-free room, humming to himself.

Catching sight of Athos watching him from the doorway, he stopped.

“What?”

“Why are you not in a state of near suffocation?” Athos asked.

Beckoning a confused d’Artagnan to the room that Porthos was “cleaning” they were both amused to see their friend somewhat greyer than he usually was, as the dust swirled around him.

“If you sprinkle water on the floor, it stops the dust flying up,” d’Artagnan said, knowingly.

Porthos gaped at him, before throwing his broom aside and stalking off in search of water.

“Good to know,” Athos muttered, before turning on his heel and walking back to the larger room to impart this new knowledge to his cleaning partner.

“Wouldn’t expect a Comte to know that,” d’Artagnan smirked as he returned to his task.

**oOo**

“There’s a musket ball-sized hole here!” d’Artagnan cried, running his finger over the hole in the wall of his room.

“That’s when me and Athos were held ‘ostage,” Porthos shouted from the next room, matter-of-factly. “Though he won’t remember much of it. He’d been stabbed in the chest.”

“What?!”

“Before you arrived here, shoutin’ the odds. It’s a long story. Remind me tonight when we’re in The Wren and I’ll tell ya.”

“In the meantime, get a bucket and start washin’ those walls, or we’ll never get out of ‘ere.”

**oOo**

They all worked steadily on.

At some point, Serge brought food and wine, and d’Artagnan and Porthos joined Athos and Aramis in the main room.

“Captain’s orders,” Serge said, “As long as you’re finished by nightfall.”

“We will be,” Athos replied, pouring wine into four glasses.

“Serge, do you remember the incident with the grains? Aramis asked the old veteran. It seemed to be a day for memories and this one had suddenly swirled into his mind.

“’Course I do. Well, you will ...,” their cook replied, nodding at Aramis.

“Food poisoning,” Serge said quietly. “Contaminated cereals. I’d used it to bake bread and make porridge. Didn’t realise.”

“Not your fault,” Athos said firmly, handing him the cup of wine he had poured himself.

Serge took it and threw it down his throat in one go.

“A lot took sick though,” he muttered.

“Both of you ...” the old man said, nodding at Athos and Porthos.

“And then you,” he said, looking at Aramis.

“Captain was beside ‘imself.” Serge said. “Nearly lost his three best men in one go.”

Serge shuffled out and Aramis blew out a ragged breath and ran his hand through his hair; regretting unsettling the old man.

**oOo**

After eating, d’Artagnan and Porthos had stayed in the main room and were now collecting the mattresses, ready to haul them outside and give them a beating.

Athos and Aramis were busy swabbing the floor, having sprinkled water on the dust and sweeping it up in preparation. They had worked out from the centre of the room. Reaching his end of the room, Athos turned and saw Aramis had stopped and was staring at the floor. Pulling his scarf down, he quietly approached him.

“What is it, old friend?” he asked, gently placing his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

Aramis flinched, before looking at him.

“We lost eight men in that ambush,” he said, looking at the flagstones at the end of the room.

“Nearly lost Athos,” Porthos added quietly;

“This room was fit to burstin’ and then some of them took with the fever.”

“What happened?” d’Artagnan asked.

“They laid us on the floor,” Athos said quietly, looking from Porthos to Aramis.

“Coldest place we could think of,” Porthos said, meeting Athos’s gaze.

“The best idea you had,” Aramis added, smiling at Porthos.

**oOo**

“Why has this bedpost got notches on it?” d’Artagnan asked, as he pulled the last mattress of the bed.

They all stopped and looked amused, apart from Aramis, who looked embarrassed.

“Aramis did that,” Porthos said, chuckling.

d’Artagnan looked at Aramis with raised eyebrows.

The man himself sat on the edge of one of the cots and sighed.

Athos took up the tale.

“Aramis was confined to bed with a head injury,” he began.

“Only, ‘e got bored,” Porthos interjected.

“So he started to carve the bed post. Although the significance of each notch escapes me,” Athos said quietly, looking away.

“Except that last one,” Porthos added, nodding at the notch at the bottom.

Athos and Porthos both looked at each other, before they both said together;

_“Madame Charbonneau.”_

“Somehow,” Athos continued, “Madame discovered Aramis was resident in this facility and decided to pay him a visit.”

“She was only comforting me,” Aramis said, meeting their gaze for a brief moment before looking away.

“Treville didn’t see it that way,” Porthos laughed.

“He should have knocked,” Aramis muttered, before finally meeting their eyes and joining in their amusement.

“Good job these walls can’t talk,” Porthos said, clapping Aramis on the shoulder.

“Or the bedposts,” Athos murmured.

**oOo**

Walls and floors washed and mattresses beaten, Aramis began to empty the cupboards. Pots and jars were inspected. Some were discarded and some put to one side to be replenished. 

“It’s quite a place, isn’t it?” d’Artagnan said, as he wrote down the herbs and liquids Aramis called out before closing the cupboard doors and collecting the detrius.

“I never really thought about it.”

“That is because you have never needed it. Yet,” Athos replied.

“Try ‘an keep it that way,” Porthos growled.

“It is a place none of us would choose to be in, but we are all grateful for, in times of need,” Aramis replied.

“Amen to that,” Porthos said.

Captain Treville came in as the light started to fade and looked around.

He said nothing, lost in his own thoughts.

Finally, he turned his eyes on them.

It was uncomfortable to say the least.

“Dismissed,” he finally said.

Just one word, before turning and leaving.

They all looked at each other.

“What was that about?”

Athos turned and looked at them.

“He has made his point,” he said.

“Well, ‘e’s got a clean infirmary,” Porthos said.

“No,” replied Athos. “That was not the point of this exercise.”

“What then?” d’Artagnan asked, looking confused.

Athos stared at the door through which Treville had left.

“This is why Treville set us this task,” he said, having realised the intent.

They looked at him.

Athos looked around the room. They followed his gaze as he looked at the ceiling and at the flagstones at the end of the room.

“He set us this particular task to remind us how precious life is, and to remind us how we have fought for our lives within these walls.”

“And the lesson is not to endanger ourselves unnecessarily,” Aramis added, in response.

“Indeed.”

They were all quiet for a solemn moment, before Athos picked up his jacket and shrugged it on.

“Clean up, gentlemen,” he said. “And then we will go to The Wren to celebrate.”

“What are we celebratin’?” Porthos asked, following them out.

“Our new outlook,” Athos replied quietly.

**oOo**

_Thanks for reading!_


	12. Blind Spot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, help - though well intentioned - does not always go to plan.

**BLIND SPOT**

**Athos, Aramis and Porthos:**

“Do we really have to get there this early?” Porthos grumbled, as they trudged toward the Garrison, past a few early morning traders who were beginning to their up their stalls.

Aramis turned to face him. He had pulled his friend from his bed at an ungodly hour for a very good reason.

“I just want to make sure Athos has returned. He’s been gone two days.”

Porthos picked up an apple from a trader’s stall and tossed the woman a coin. Handing it to Aramis, he clapped him on the back, in full agreement. They had last seen their friend after their last evening meal together, when he had made his excuses and headed off alone. Whether to his room or to a tavern they did not ask, for it appeared Athos did not need their company and they knew when to leave him be.

Aramis gave the lone guard up on the wall a brief wave as they walked beneath him along the perimeter wall.

“He’ll turn up,” Porthos had just said when they turned into the archway, on their way to being the first to arrive.

Aramis suddenly threw out his arm, stopping Porthos in his tracks as in front of them was a prone figure lying on the rough ground, stretched along the length of the wall of the arch. A blanket had been thrown loosely over the figure, making it impossible to see who it was.

An hour later and whoever it was would have been trampled by the first wagon of the day. 

Moving fast, they reached the figure and pulled the blanket away.

“Athos,” Aramis whispered, recognising the mop of hair and sinking to his knees. 

Porthos knelt down beside Aramis and together they rolled Athos over onto his back. He was deeply unconscious and did not respond to the gentle tapping on his face, by his anxious friends. They could not see any blood, but on closer inspection, he appeared to have a bandage wrapped tightly around his torso beneath his shirt.

“We can’t leave him here,” Aramis said, as he gently pulled him into a sitting position, “the store wagons will be coming soon.” 

Together, they got a boneless Athos to his feet. Porthos slipped one arm around his back and the other under his knees and scooped him up. Aramis held the back of his head and they made their way to the infirmary.

Once inside, they divested him of his leathers and Aramis carefully unwrapped the bandage. Underneath, they saw that a dark bruise was beginning to form at the centre of his ribcage. It did not account for his lack of response, he felt, and so he began to probe every inch of his scalp, before finding a lump at the back of his head.

“He’s not been drinkin’” Porthos said, straightening. “Not a whiff of wine.” 

Looking more carefully at the dark bruise, Aramis blew out a breath.

“Looks like he was struck with something,” he said to himself.

“He would ‘ave seen them coming though,” Porthos replied. “Must have come up behind him first, which would account for that lump on the back of ‘is head.”

Aramis straightened and stood with his hands on his hips, worriedly lost in thought. He went to the cupboard and withdrew his sewing kit. Back at the table, he took a needle and slid it into the back of his friend’s hand. 

“No response,” he murmured. “All we can do is make him comfortable, and watch him.”

They moved him to one of the smaller rooms and continued to try and work out what could have happened. Athos had no money on him and Aramis noticed that the chain he always wore around his neck was gone.

“Straightforward robbery,” Porthos growled. 

“But how did he find his way back here in this condition?” Aramis replied. 

“And how come he had a blanket over ‘im?”

Aramis picked the blanket up from the table where they had left it, and studied it carefully. It was old and threadbare in places, but it had been neatly patched and was clean.

“What on earth is going on?” Aramis said quietly, as he put the folded blanket on the end of the bed and sat down next to Athos. He lifted his hand and studied it, then ran his hand over his friend’s face.

“He’s clean. There is no dirt on his hands or his face. Almost as if he washed.

“That don’t make sense,” Porthos replied. “And where did he get the bandage?”

“More to the point, who applied it? Quite well, I might add.”

“None of this makes sense, mon ami,” Aramis added, in response to Porthos’s first statement.

He pulled the sheet up over Athos and sighed.

_“Where have you been, my friend?”_

**oOo**

They had searched for him when he had failed to return, of course, but Treville was gone too and they wondered if they were together – gone early to the palace. Athos sometimes did accompany the Captain. But Treville had returned that first day as night fell, tired and irritable. He was not in a mood to discuss his missing lieutenant, who, he pointed out, was not due on duty that day anyway, and that was the uneasy end of it. Until they had entered the Garrison as dawn broke and found him; thinking for an awful moment that he was dead.

Aramis and Porthos were at a loss. Treville fired questions at Aramis that he could not answer. He and Porthos look at each other in despair.

Their friend was the centre of the mystery but at the moment, he was beyond reach.

**oOo**

Athos remained unresponsive.

A physician had arrived, as requested by Treville, but he could only tell Aramis to continue to do what he was doing; mainly keeping Athos comfortable. 

Aramis, though, began to worry that the blow to his head had been more severe than they had at first thought. Athos had not moved, remaining deadly still; only the shallow rise and fall of his chest an indication that he was still with them. Porthos and Aramis both watched him the first night; neither one wanting to take their eyes off him.

“What we gonna do?” Porthos had said quietly, as he opened the shutters as dawn broke.

“I have absolutely no idea,” Aramis replied, running his hand through his hair.

“Go wash up,” Porthos said, “I’ll watch ‘im.” 

Aramis did not reply. 

“I’ll get us somethin’ to eat when you come back,” Porthos persisted.

Aramis reluctantly complied; closing the door gently as he went out. As he walked across the yard, his eyes strayed to the archway. Three boys were standing there, looking nervously around. They looked like brothers, the youngest perhaps around ten years old; the others each a year or two older.

Aramis kept his eyes on them as he walked over. It was not uncommon for young boys to hang around the Garrison entrance; fascinated by the goings-on and wanting to watch the Musketeers train and spar. They were always shooed away, for their own safety; sometimes with bread or cheese if they looked like they needed it.

These three boys were different. Their eyes were downcast, and the oldest one looked furtive rather than fascinated.

“Boys?” Aramis said, as he approached, “You should not be here.”

“How is he?” the middle one suddenly asked, his eyes bright.

“How is who?” Aramis asked quietly, suddenly giving the boy his full attention.

“The Musketeer. We didn’t mean it! We thought we were helping ...” the boy’s voice trailed off.

“Mother told us to bring him back,“ the oldest boy now said, stepping forward and pushing his two brothers behind him. “But we were scared you’d think we did it.”

“Did what, exactly?”

“Hurt him.”

Aramis reached out and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. 

“You’d better start from the beginning,” he said quietly. “Come with me.”

**oOo**

Aramis took the three boys to the infirmary, but kept them in the large room. Not wanting to leave them alone, he called Porthos.

The three boys flinched when the large Musketeer came through the door, his frame almost filling the doorway.

“It’s alright. This is Porthos. We three are brothers too. Now, sit down and tell us everything.”

**oOo**

The oldest boy gave his name as Gerard and said his brothers were Jorge, the youngest, and Jacques. Aramis sat them down and he and Porthos sat down in front of them and both leaned forward expectantly. 

“Go on, lad,” Porthos said softly. “Speak up.”

Gerard swallowed but seemed relieved to be able to talk and his words began to spill out. 

“Never seen someone in so much pain still be able to talk,” Gerard started.

“Mother made up her pain draught and that helped, and he finally fell asleep,” Jorge added, wanting to help.

“Then, he woke up,” Gerard continued, “and he was trying to breathe, but he was struggling. So I managed to sit him up a bit, and he settled. So I gave him some more of mother’s draught and he fell asleep.”

“What we didn’t know later was Jorge gave him some more, and then ... he might have helped himself, as Jorge left the bottle by his bed.”

He held out the bottle and Aramis took it. Sniffing it carefully, he looked back at them. It was nothing he recognised.

“It’s mother’s own recipe. Passed down the family. Works really well, but you don’t need much.”

His voice trailed away.

“And he’s had too much,” Jacques added, looking warily at Porthos.

The older one nodded.

“We panicked, once we realised. Mother said to bring him back today anyway, so we loaded him up early and set off at first light; before she woke.”

“So ‘e wasn’t lyin’ there all night,” Porthos said, looking at Gerard intently.

“No! We just wanted to get him back before she found out. We thought he was going to stop breathing.”

“How did you get past the guard?”

“You’ve got a blind spot,” the boy replied simply, pointing at the parapet about the archway.

Aramis and Porthos both followed his finger.

“If you keep close to the wall,” Gerard explained, “On the far side of the arch, there’s a section of wall just before the arch that can’t be seen from top of the wall.”

“You just have to wait for the guard to look away, or move along, and by the time he’s looked back, you can be inside the archway,” Jorge said, sounding quiet pleased with himself, for it was he that had first discovered it a few months previously.

Aramis looked at Porthos and raised his eyebrows. Porthos shrugged. 

“You might want this,” Jorge added, handing Aramis Athos’s locket. “It was next to him in the doorway. They took his money but they must have dropped that.”

“You saw who did this?”

“No, but we saw them running off. We were coming back with the cart from selling Maman’s vegetables. That’s how we got him home.”

Aramis poured the three boys a cup of watered down wine, and they sat quietly for a few moments, before Gerard continued.

“He didn’t seem too bad at first, but then he started struggling to breathe. Maman took charge and we helped her strap him up. She said his ribs were most likely broke, or this bone here ..” the boy put his fingers to his own breast bone, “broke or cracked, she said.”

“She talked to him for a bit, and then went to bed. He was asleep by then. She asked us to take turns watching him. He was in our room.

“In my bed,” Jorge piped up. “I slept on the floor,” he added, though he appeared to think nothing of it.

“So he woke up?” Aramis said, relieved in view of his head injury.

“At first, for a bit, yes.”

“Don’t worry,” Aramis replied, “You did well. You may even have done him a favour.”

“How? We nearly killed him!” Jacques cried; the first time he had spoken.

“Drugged as he is,” Aramis smiled, “he has at least been still. Had he been conscious, we would have had the Devil’s own job to keep him from hurting himself more.”

“He don’t like bein’ hurt,” Porthos explained, as the three boys stared at him.

“I’d like to speak to your mother,” Aramis said, suddenly standing, and looking down at them.

“Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble. I would just like her to tell us what the mixture consists of. And if she would like to share her recipe. It appears to be a powerful concoction. The King’s Musketeers would be very grateful and I think our Captain will see her well-rewarded. Not only for this,” he said, holding out the bottle, “But for pointing out our blind spot.”

Later that day, a woman approached the Garrison, with her eldest son, Gerard, who urged her through the archway.

“How is your man?” she asked, after introducing herself as Linette Allard.

“His name is Athos, madame,” Aramis replied. “And I am Aramis,” he added, giving her a gentle bow. “We are in your debt, I believe.”

Her fearful look eased a little at his words. 

“His enforced rest is no doubt helping his ribs but we need him to wake now,” he added.

She produced a small bottle from beneath her shawl.

“Give him half today and half tomorrow,” she said, “Though it may give him a vicious headache.”

“He is used to that,” Aramis replied with a smile.

“What does it contain?” he asked her, holding the bottle up to the light.

She merely held his gaze.

“I understand,” he said. “Very well, but we must talk, when this is over.”

**oOo**

Aramis and Porthos escorted Madame Allard and her son to their Captain’s office. Sitting under the gaze of these three men, Linette looked very nervous, until Treville assured her she was not in trouble; they just wanted to know her story.

Linette pulled her shawl around her as a look of despair briefly crossed her features. She told them that she had received her husband back into their home six months previously with a heavy heart. He had been a soldier too, and they had returned him to her with a broken spine. He had been in such pain that soon she was exhausted caring from him and her three boys. After a few weeks, her medicine became stronger out of necessity, and then he was begging her for more. On the brief occasions she slept through the night, the boys would give him the draught. They could not bear his cries.

“The moment he turned his eyes on us, whichever one of us was with him would give him the medicine,” Gerard said. “In the end, he didn’t have to ask. The pain asked for him.”

“When he passed, it was a relief. For him and for us,” Linette whispered.

She reached out suddenly and took her son’s hand in hers.

“When the boys brought your man ... Athos ... back, this Friday past – it was dark and the weather had turned. We had no idea who he was. Just a poor soul who had been attacked and needed help.”

Aramis smiled at her in encouragement and she swallowed, and drew Gerard to her.

“I made up the medicine once more and we waited for him to wake. When he did, he could not breathe. It took all of us to find a position where he could draw air into his lungs. He had been better unconscious.”

“They had damaged his ribs and he had a concussion, but that night, propped up against Gerard, he managed to tell us he was a soldier. That was all though, but I could tell by his voice, he was well-bred. Not a common man.”

“You are right, Madame Allard. He is not a common man,” Treville replied.

“The boys said they would care for him,” she continued, “and I eventually went to my bed. Apparently, he took worse during the night and Gerard gave him more of the draught. He was peaceful then, Gerard said.” 

“It started again as soon as he woke,” she went on. “Such pain. I could not bear the look in his eyes.”

“I gave him more of the draught, and then I went to the market. It was there I heard one of the Musketeers was missing.”

“When I got back, he was still asleep. He did not look like a Musketeer. His only possession was the locket the boys found. So Jorge set off to the Garrison to see what he could find out.”

Gerard took up his brother’s tale then, pale and eyes downcast.

“A stable boy gave Jorge a description,” he said. “He said the Musketeers were going to kill whoever had him.”

Aramis sighed. Porthos had been quite vocal on the matter.

“We took care of him that night. By then though, he was needing the draught.”

“So we dosed him up throughout the night and brought him back, real early.

“But he’d had enough, Gerard!” Linette said, having heard the full story and suddenly realising how liberal her boys had been with her powerful pain draught. “He is not Papa!”

“He was in pain!” Gerard cried, pulling away from her. “Just like Papa.”

“We laid him in the archway,” Gerard continued, looking defiant now, “against the wall so he wouldn’t get trampled.”

“You left him?!” Linette whispered, staring at her eldest in disbelief.

“They would have arrested us, Maman! How could you survive without us?”

Linette cried then. Her poor, caring boys. Damaged more than she had thought by their father’s pain.

“My husband died in pain,” she said quietly. “I had no more pain draught. I had no money to buy the ingredients. I swore I would never let it happen again.”

“It was well intentioned,” Treville said.

“Your boys have just become averse to seeing someone in pain,” Aramis said, taking her hand. “They have developed a blind spot too. Sometimes,” he added, looking at Gerard, “a certain degree of pain serves a purpose; do not be afraid of it.”

Gerard nodded. 

Aramis turned back to Linette.

“Will you help us wake him?”

She looked gratefully at him, and nodded.

**oOo**

The stimulant Linette provided worked just the way she said.

Under her supervision, later that day, Aramis gave Athos half the liquid. It had the effect of bringing him up into a lighter sleep. That alone, made Aramis relax for the first time in days. The following morning, the second dose did its job and Athos finally opened his eyes. His injury was a painful one though and he needed coaxing into taking shallow breaths. That, and the vicious headache Linette had promised kept him lying still in a darkened room for the rest of that day. 

Eventually, she was persuaded to give them a bottle of her pain draught, as Athos needed to be eased off it, but even a small quantity eased his pain. Aramis was careful not to leave the bottle near him however.

One morning, a few weeks later, Captain Treville and Athos of the King’s Musketeers paid Linette Allard and her boys a visit, and came to an arrangement with her.

When they left, she had a contract to provide her compound to the Garrison, whilst keeping her formula secret. Her boys had discovered a weakness in the Garrison’s defences, pointing out its blind spot. They were rewarded with the offer of employment in the Garrison, as befitted their ages, for two days each a week, for as long as they wanted. 

Finally, Linette received a pension Treville had arranged for her husband’s military service, agreed by King Louis XIII himself.

Madame Allard and her caring boys had needed a little luck in her life. The night an injured King’s Musketeer came into their lives had turned out to be a blessing.

For them, and for Athos.

**oOo**

Thanks for reading!


	13. Sanctuary

_A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace. Ecclesiastes 3:8_

**Athos; d’Artagnan and Treville:**

He had stayed in the tavern to drink, sitting briefly with Constance and d’Artagnan until he took his leave. Finding out that your wife was now ensconced in the Palace as the King’s mistress was enough to consider, without having to engage in polite conversation; however fond of the company you are.

At first, the revelation had hardly penetrated the armour he had built and rebuilt around himself since he had banished her from Paris. As he walked home alone though, that armour had started to crumble; falling from him like scales, leaving raw flesh beneath. The ensuing night had been long, as he paced around his room.

In the morning, at the Garrison and bereft of sleep, he had sought a place to gather his ragged thoughts. His feet took him, of their own volition, to the infirmary. He sought one of the small rooms at the back, which was used for privacy by those who needed it; caught twixt life and death.

A place of solace.

A sanctuary.

**oOo**

At first, he could not settle; but he had anticipated that and had brought along his whetstone and the sword his father had given him; his only remaining anchor to the past. Sitting on the edge of a barren wooden cot, he began to hone one edge of the blade. The long rhythmic strokes eventually calmed him and he became lost in the welcomed habit of old.

Later, d’Artagnan came, his boots echoing on the stone floor; forewarning of his arrival.

“The Captain is looking for you.”

“Thank you.”

The young man remained, hovering in the doorway.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Athos replied, looking up and taking in the anxious face, his hand still over the blade. 

“For speaking within earshot last night,” d’Artagnan replied. They had not spoken of it at the time, and it had obviously played on his mind.

“Constance too,” he added.

“You were not to know I was close-by. Either of you,” Athos replied, before applying the whetstone once more.

“Now I see why you instruct head over heart,” d’Artagan said quickly, as if he had been giving it thought since they had parted company.

“The heart is tender. It bruises easily," he went on. “But it can destroy you in an instant.”

“It is a lesson well-learned,” Athos replied softly, as he continued the swish of the whetstone.

“I cannot see what else you could have done. You did your duty,” d’Artagnan finished; the image of Athos on his knees outside his burning home never far from his mind where Milady was concerned.

“And yet, she lives.” Athos murmured.

“Sorry, you came here for peace,” d’Artagnan said quickly, turning and making for the door. The quietness that descended on Athos at such times was almost more disturbing to him than the rage. It felt almost an intrusion to witness it.

“Does such a thing exist?” he heard Athos murmur behind him.

The swish of stone on steel died away as, subdued, d’Artagnan went on his way.

**oOo**

“Is there a queue out there?” Athos growled, as he saw Treville in the doorway a short time later.

“There had better not be,” the man replied. “d’Artagnan was very discreet.”

Athos grunted, still bent on his task; the ring of the blade echoing around the small room.

Treville eyed his soldier. This would need delicate handling.

“What is it you seek, Athos?”

“Solitude.”

Treville sighed.

“You’ve seen her?”

“Not yet.”

“What in Hell’s name is she doing?” Treville said quietly, rubbing his hand across his face.

Athos stopped and looked up, though not at Treville.

“Surviving,” he replied, a hard edge to his voice.

Treville stepped into the room.

“It’s the first time you have entered _this_ place voluntarily,” he ventured.

“I am told that in here, no-one can hear you scream.”

Treville huffed out a laugh.

“You want to scream?”

“No, because that would be unseemly.”

“And not befitting a soldier,” Treville added. 

“Nor, a man,” Athos replied.

He continued to hone the blade in long steady strokes, head bent over his task.

“I can see its advantages,” Treville offered, looking around the room. “I will bear it in mind.”

Athos suddenly stopped and shook his head.

“She plagues me,” he bit out. “I cannot get away from her.”

“Do you wish to?” Treville ventured. He had his doubts on the matter.

Athos did not answer, nor raise his head; the atmosphere in the small room becoming heavy. Treville noticed a slight tremor in his lieutenant's hand as he held the whetstone, before he tightened his grip, knuckles white, and continued.

“She won’t find you in here,” Treville added lightly, though inwardly cursing the woman.

“No, I don’t suppose she will,” Athos replied, stopping midway through a stroke with a world-weary sigh.

“Do you think she will manage this new role of hers?”

“She is an accomplished liar,” Athos replied instantly, as if he had been waiting for the question, or at least considered it during the long hours of his ill-spent night. “And the King flourishes on flattery.”

He lifted his head then and stared into space.

“She will excel in it,” he added with quiet conviction. “He has taken a viper to his bosom.”

“Is he in danger?” Treville said quickly, nerves prickling.

Athos sighed again.

“She saved his life, and that of d’Artagnan. She did not have to do that.”

“Vipers are unpredictable. Is the King in danger _now?”_ Treville pressed.

“I do not know!" Athos replied, exasperated; just wanting to be left alone.

He softened then, lost in a memory.

"It was _Anne_ I knew and she was Spring-time," he replied softly. _"Milady”_ is, as her name suggests, “ he paused, “Winter.”

The final word fell heavily between them.

“Cold, unpredictable and, perhaps, unyielding?” Treville said. “That will not work with Louis,” he smiled.

“The winter thaws eventually. She has other strings to her bow.” Athos answered.

Whetstone on steel commenced once more and Treville fell silent; mesmerised by the action.

**oOo**

“She killed Remy,” Athos said, a few moments later; thinking on the danger once more. “She seduced him into helping her escape the noose, and her fate.

"But _when_ did she arrange that?!” he said, his voice growing louder as he thoughts began to unravel.

He looked at Treville with anguished eyes.

Treville waited, watching.

“I told her to make her peace with God! She was taken from the room while Thomas’s body was still warm,” he continued, his voice breaking. “She was locked up!

When did she make her arrangement with Remy? Seduction is no short conversation; unless she knew him that way already and a quick flash of her eyes was all that was needed!”

Treville still did not speak, not withing to interrupt the tumult of words.

“Yet she swore she loved me," Athos said, barely audible.

The hand tightened once more on the whetstone and the action suddenly became frantic.

Treville waited.

“I have not been able to make sense of it,” he continued, agitated now. 

_"Athos,"_ Treville said quietly.

After all these years, I _still_ cannot make sense of it."

But Treville's quiet entreaty must have registered, as Athos stilled once more, leaving the sword resting across his lap as he turned his face away from Treville.

Treville watched as his fingers traced along a crack in the wall next to the cot; relieved to see the slight tremor had gone.

“You did your duty, Athos. She tore your life to shreds in a moment,” Treville replied. “She was not worthy of you.”

Perhaps it was the way he said it, Treville would consider later. Perhaps it was his choice of words. Or he chose the wrong moment to empathise; because Athos did not want empathy. He wanted _answers_ and he had taken himself to Hell and back since he left the tavern the previous evening; searching for his Anne.

In any event, his agitation was still too close to the surface.

In that moment, his resolve left him and the emotions he had held onto finally overpowered him, and the dam burst. Unseeing, unfocused, undone, he threw his sword aside and surged up, pushing into Treville; the only catalyst for his anger.

Athos roared;

_“She was my life!”_

The full force of Athos’s loss of control was daunting. However, Treville knew how to endure a violent storm. 

He withstood the glare; meeting like with like.

He withstood the hand on his chest that was pushing him against the wall; he did not respond.

_For only that woman could unravel Athos so._

The room ceased to be as the moment seemed to freeze.

Treville knew his man, but he would not take a bet on which way this would go. Striking an officer was a grave offence. Even with no witnesses, neither man would ignore the consequences. Their sense of honour would not allow it.

Treville watched the warring emotions on Athos’s face, inches from his own; their harsh breathing in synch now.

Athos stared into his Captain’s steel blue eyes; searching ... _searching_ ...

And finally, finding.

Gradually, the furious face in front of Treville changed; softened.

“Peace, Athos,” Treville said quietly.

_Peace._

Treville watched his lieutenant’s shoulders ease, and then sag.

Athos took an unsteady step back, coming back to himself; seeing Treville as if for the first time.

Treville reached out and put his hand briefly on his lieutenant’s shoulder.

The man was spent, but he needed purpose. Now was not the time to go easy on him.

“Do you need more time?” Treville asked firmly, his eyes drifting to the sword abandoned on the bed.

His meaning was clear. Time to continue sharpening the sword; the time it would take to deal with the fall-out of the situation with Milady would take much longer. He would not enquire about that until much later.

Athos’s eyes followed his.

“No,” he replied quietly. “I believe I have brought it back to the best that I can get it, at this time. And serviceable once more.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Treville said. “Given its worth.”

Treville walked to the window and stared into the courtyard beyond. Seeing nothing amiss, he turned.

“It seems you are right. We have not been heard.”

Athos straightened his jacket, and then his shoulders.

“I have a missive that needs to be delivered,” Treville was saying.

“Where to?” Athos asked, as the world slowly straightened around them.

“The Palace.”

There was an unspoken moment between them at the implication.

“What do I do?” Athos whispered; suddenly lost.

“You do what you have always done.”

Athos looked at him.

“You meet your challenges with dignity. You pick yourself up after every slip; every fall. You do your duty and protect your King. As you have always done,” Treville said firmly, reaching out a hand and gripping his shoulder once more.

“And do not forget, Athos, not for one moment, that you have comrades and friends here. I imagine, in that, that you _do_ have a queue.”

Athos dipped his head.

“My office; five minutes,” Treville said. “That missive won’t deliver itself.”

“Yes, Captain,” Athos replied.

“Oh, and Athos ....”

Athos raised an eyebrow.

“No matter what has gone before; cherish the memories that brought you joy, son.”

Treville held his gaze and then nodded once, and before turning and leaving him alone. Athos crossed to the window and watched him make his way back to his office.

“Yes, Captain,” he whispered.

**oOo**

Thanks for reading! More soon. 


	14. Just A Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it just a room?
> 
> Just what does the Infirmary mean to the soldiers of the Garrison?

It was inevitable that, when men lived in such close proximity, if sickness occurred, it would spread.

It was inevitable that, when blades and muskets were used, injuries would occur.

It was inevitable that at some point, every soldier would cross the threshold of the infirmary.

Words such as “chaos,” “compassion,” and “fear,” came easily to mind when thinking about the infirmary.

There was a word that could be applied in the case of the stable boy who had been crushed in one of the stalls by the horse he was moving.

He had only been working there for a few weeks. Hardly enough time to remember his name; but Aramis would not forget the boy’s face as he held his hand and whispered prayers as he passed. He had not been able to ease his terror. For that was the word.

The boy had not been the first and he would not be the last to which that word would be applied within those walls.

Aramis had come to realise that some things could not be changed and some people could not be saved. He had studied Dr Lemay’s quiet acceptance of such tragedies, realising that all that could be done would be done and if the Lord wished a different outcome, they had no right to argue.

Aramis accepted that. Most of the time.

It was inevitable that men would bond within these walls.

Athos and Porthos had done just that, brought back by cart from a mission early on in their acquaintance; both protesting vehemently about having to ride, yet both unable to walk into the infirmary of their own volition. They had walked out as brothers.

It was a fact that time spent within these walls would inevitably affect a man.

Some, like Athos, would do anything to avoid residency.

Others, like Porthos, would take it on the chin; perhaps seeing is as compensation for being a Musketeer.

Some, like d’Artagnan, had yet to have the experience and had been fearful; eyeing the large wooden scarred table in the surgeon’s room with a sense of foreboding.

It was inevitable that men would die within these walls.

It was a room that could be mellow and restful when lit by candlelight.

Sometimes it promised renewal when bathed in sunlight.

Sometimes, darkness and deep shadows told another story.

As a room, it was dressed simply;

Dark wooden shutters and flagstone floors.

Black iron candle sconces nailed onto whitewashed walls.

Unadorned wooden cots. Straw-filled mattresses; sometimes down, sometimes horse-hair.

Once-cream linen sheets now bleached white from boiling and the heat of a drying sun. Rolls of bandages that have shared the same fate.

Dark wool blankets, both old and new; patched and pulled by curling fingers, twisting. Frantic.

Metal instruments that struck fear in the hearts of those who gazed at them; often locked away until needed. Often not seen by those needing the most fearful-looking of them.

But, as a room, it was anything but simple.

It was a room that smelled of lavender, chamomile, oil of cloves and whatever Serge served up at mealtimes;

Of woodsmoke and ash;

Sweat and soap; not always in equal measure.

Fear had its own smell; as did death.

And, as wounds were cauterised by red hot metal, so did burning flesh.

There was sometimes laughter within these walls. Occasionally, songs were sung; both bawdy that bounced off the walls and religious that uplifted and caressed. Other times, laments and complaints could be heard.

Often, there were tears - for Musketeers were brothers, who wept in relief and in grief.

Within these walls, hands were held;

Sometimes lightly; so as not to disturb. Sometimes tightly; so as not to let go. 

It could seem like a small room when sheltering a dozen men; one man alone here could feel swallowed whole as if floundering within the belly of a great white whale.

This room could be noisy; a cacophony of human voice. 

Sometimes, it was quiet, save for the murmurs of those caring and those sharing; and those lost for a time while tended to - or brought back with sudden force or quiet breath.

It was inevitable that prayers were uttered in hushed tones here, whether desired or not. And where laughter could be abruptly cut off, in deference to those who could not share in such humour.

Men were carried in here and they were carried out. It was inevitable.

This room was part of their Garrison; a part of their lives. For some, the last room they would see.

Some, like Athos, never wishing to see it again – until the next time.

For Aramis, it was a workplace; although he had had his fair share of the other experiences this place had to offer. 

For Porthos, it was a place he had never had growing up; having to manage his own injuries and sickness and those of his friends and sadly, his mother.

For d’Artagnan, when he had eventually been admitted, it was a place where he had experienced the daily love and care of his brothers.

For Treville, it was one of the first rooms he had insisted upon. He had paced this room many times, moving from bed to bed. He had held many a hand and walked with them when they were taken from it for the last time.

He had ushered malingers out; and ordered others to stay.

This was a room that often assaulted the senses.

A room that also soothed and pacified.

A room that was both welcomed and shunned.

A place of solace and a place of dread.

No-one was unaffected by being in this room, whether as a patient, a brother or as a healer.

The threshold bore witness.

It was often approached and crossed with caution; some not wanting to pass through to the uncertainty beyond. Crossing in hope and leaving in relief, or in despair. The threshold to this room was formidable.

It was inevitable that injuries would occur; horses kicked, sparring blades bit; bones fractured and flesh was rent by musket ball and steel.

All the while, the infirmary formed the backdrop of their lives.

The two rooms at the back are eyed with suspicion, as men who go there often do not return. Yet, even those rooms can bring comfort to those like Athos, who does not care to share his suffering. Others, like Porthos, are easily bored in those rooms and prefer company more than privacy and a chance to encourage those who may otherwise fail to thrive.

Sometimes the infirmary was not used for days, and if they were lucky, weeks. Sometimes, the opposite.

It was inevitable that the room would feel different, depending on who was installed within its walls. That the ceiling would seem too low or the walls too close. That the air would feel too heavy, or too thin.

Men who were not used to feeling emotions did not fare well here, for emotions ran high and deep. Men could be cursing one minute, and beseeching the next.

This was a place of leeches and maggots; applied in good faith.

It was harsh and it was tender.

Men called for their mothers in this room.

Many, for their God.

Some called for wives and lovers or whores.

Some for all three.

It was an adaptable room. Sheets could be hung from hooks in the ceiling and draped around the wooden cots to give privacy. For even though they were soldiers and had long since accepted that privacy for intimate needs was a wishful concept, efforts would be made in this room.

In this room they bonded, they supported, they said their good-byes. This was where they raved and where they cried.

There was great bravery in this room, and great sadness.

Within these walls there was humour and heartbreak, healing and hope.

This was their infirmary.

This was more than just a room.

oOo

Thanks for reading!


	15. Bad Cereal

**Aramis and Serge**

Following on from “If These Walls Could Talk (2)”; Aramis seeks out Serge.

**oOo**

“My apologies, Serge,” Aramis said quietly, as he made his way through the kitchen door. “I did not mean to stir up bad memories about the grain incident.”

Aramis had sought Serge out a week or two after they had cleaned the Infirmary. He had meant to talk to him earlier, but circumstances had now allowed; Athos had disappeared and then once recovered, and with a fractured breastbone, it had taken their time and energy to untangle the circumstances and get him back on his feet again.

Aramis was now on his way to help Porthos construct a wooden walkway around the turret of the perimeter wall, to the right of the archway. Apparently it held a “blind spot” and needed swiftly rectifying.

The old man huffed; pulling himself up and shuffling across to his bread oven.

Serge was sometimes mistaken for a lugubrious man. He kept himself to himself and ran a tight kitchen, speaking when spoken too. He could be quick to chide those in his employ, in order to get a good job done. But beneath the doleful exterior, he was thoughtful and had a kindly heart. Lately though, Aramis could see that his thoughts had been transported back to that time he had inadvertently recently reminded him of. 

“All in the past,” Serge had muttered. Aramis though, had seen the tremble in his hands and knew that those particular memories had not been laid to rest.

“You spend your life caring for us, old friend,” Aramis said, taking the trays from him and putting them aside. Perhaps you need a little care too, sometimes.”

“Get away with you,” the old man answered gruffly.

However, he allowed Aramis to gently push him down onto a nearby bench.

“S’my job,” Serge said, gruffly; staring at the tray of steaming bread Aramis had just relieved him of.

“It’s more than that,” Aramis replied gently, sitting next to him.

Serge pulled his gaze away from the cooling loaves and cast his eyes to the floor.

“I thought you were all going to die,” he finally said.

“But we did not,” Aramis said quietly, knowing that the veteran would not allow too much “molly coddling” and he only had a short time to help before he was brusquely brushed off.

“The grain ‘adn’t been cleaned properly,” Serge muttered, still staring at the floor, lost once more in his memories.

They knew now that it had been the fault of how the grain had been managed before storage, not how it had been used. As the weather had turned colder every day, porridge and bread had been staples of their diet and Serge had had to find a new supplier to manage the increased demand.

"Serge,” Aramis said, “The Garrison was not the only ones affected. The trader was cutting corners.”

Serge sniffed.

“I should ‘ave washed it,” he muttered.

“Is that your normal practise?”

“No. Never had any trouble before.”

“And the grain was impounded; the purveyor was arrested.”

“Should ‘ave washed it,” Serge persisted, truculently.

“It was you who discovered the cause and raised the alarm. If not for that, it could have been a lot worse, my friend.”

**oOo**

As that day had worn on, it had become obvious who had ingested the bad cereal.

Those who had left early on missions had packed only dried goods, cheese and fruit and would be alright. d’Artagnan had eaten only an apple that morning, eager to get to the training yard to practise with his mentor. Athos had eaten half a bowl of porridge and then pushed it toward Porthos, who had already eaten his and was looking for more. However, Athos had snagged some bread and cheese, initially to give to d’Artagnan, but the young man had waved it away, brandishing his sword and giving “come on” hand gestures. Athos had made a show of slowly eating the bread, to teach his protégé a lesson in patience. 

“That lesson nearly cost ‘im his life,” Serge muttered, banging a saucepan down. “Then you joined them, and finished the rest of it,” he pointed at Aramis. Aramis looked away; he would succumb later, found by d’Artagnan folded over the table in the yard and helped to the infirmary.

Treville had barked at Serge and the old man had put his head down, not wanting his Captain to see his tears. Treville had mellowed when young Jacques , the young kitchen-hand, had collapsed at his feet. The Captain had scooped him up and carried him across the yard and once alone, Serge had realised the source of the illness, having seen everything that Jacques had eaten - being as the lad had been confined to the kitchens from early morning until mid afternoon when the illness began to manifest itself.

Later, d’Artagnan and some of those who had escaped the illness loaded the sacks of bad cereal onto carts to take to the Seine where it was dumped; sinking to the bottom of the murky water, accompanied by a litany of curses from d’Artagnan.

“It got worse,” Serge muttered, looking down, pained by the memories Aramis was teasing from him.

Treville, who had been at the palace when breakfast was served and had therefore escaped the infection, returned there later to give his report to the King.

Louis had ordered the trader’s main grain store to be raided and then, the call came to burn it to the ground. Put out of business, the unscrupulous trader tried to flee Paris, but, in a good day’s work, the Red Guard had hunted him down and brought him back to face his Monarch. Treville had wondered if the action would have been so speedy if it had only involved lowly Parisians and not his own elite regiment. He liked to think so. Ten residents in the local vicinity had died; stomachs and limbs swollen and lungs overcome.

Treville had returned from the Palace with a royal surgeon, but little could be done. The infection would run its course.

Sheets were hung around the beds of those affected and the long night wore on as they dragged themselves from bed to bucket and back, if they could accomplish that simple task at all.

“Get these windows open,” Treville had shouted, “Let’s get some air in here.”

He ordered all healthy men to help, and soon, linen was being carried out and floors were being swabbed. The surgeon made up a charcoal mixture, to be administered to every sick man.

A candle had burned in Treville’s office throughout that first night and into the dawn, as the Captain sought ways to cope with such a swift decimation of his regiment.

If the night did not go his way, there would be no letters to write to grieving relatives for his three best men. Athos, Aramis and Porthos were rootless, by their own design. Athos had forsaken his home and lands, casting himself adrift on his grief. Aramis’s chaotic upbringing had led to his quixotic nature but no-one waited for him, or lit candles in windows. Porthos’s roots lay in a dark corner of Paris which had nurtured him in its own way, but which he had outgrown. Even d’Artagnan, brought to the Garrison by bereavement and anger, was adrift from the loving anchor of family. There would be no families to which a final parchment written in Treville’s careful hand would be delivered, telling of bravery and honour, and ultimately, sadness and regret. 

But they had each other, and tonight, they were in each other’s company. Should the worst happen, it would be d’Artagnan left behind to grieve for his new family. His anger and youthful emotions had been tempered over recent months by a mentor who’s heart was true but guarded; though less so now. They had been good for each other in that respect.

There would be no letters to write for them, but Treville’s unspoken words ran deep in his heart, and he would ensure that d’Artagnan would find roots in the Garrison, as they had done. 

“Worst day of my life,” Serge was saying now, as he raised rheumy eyes to Aramis. “And I’ve had my fair share of rotten days.”

“But you rolled up your sleeves, my friend, and your help was much appreciated.”

“It was all I could do wasn’t it? Been around enough sickness to know one end of a sickbed from another,” the old man grunted.

Jacques was the one who had come the closest to death, with no fat on his bones and at his young age, his constitution was not up to the rigours of the infection. It was to his bed that Serge returned, again and again and it was Serge who pulled the boy through; though he would hear nothing of it.

Athos had lain watching Porthos, feeling the weight of guilt that he had handed his contaminated food across to him. Soon though, he was not aware enough to chide himself further.

During the hours after dawn, Treville moved from man to man.

Passing Athos’s bed, his heart seized in his chest as he saw glazed eyes staring. Approaching quietly, he lifted a limp hand, only to take a step back as a ragged breath was drawn. Sinking down onto a nearby chair, Treville took a cloth and dropped it into lukewarm water. Turning in disgust, he yelled over his shoulder:

“Fresh cold water over here! Now!!”

Quickly supplied, he ordered all bowls to be replenished and set about organising folded wet clothes to be placed on his soldier’s foreheads and bodies.

After one of the longest nights of their lives, Treville and Serge both surveyed their men.

Once the brutality of the infection had passed, men were left lying in sweat-soaked sheets in delirium.

Athos lay on his side in a tangle of sheets, his hand covering his face, hair damp and unruly. Porthos, on his front, his arm over the edge of the low cot, knuckles trailing on the flagstone floor. Aramis lay on his back, one arm flung over his head, the other across his chest, fingers curled tightly in the sheet.

Moving along, others lay in similar disarray. Treville leaned briefly over every one of them, saying a few words to each man, whether they heard or not. Reaching Jacques, Serge joined him.

“He looks better,” Treville said, patting Serge’s shoulder.

“He’d better be. Boys like ‘im are ‘ard to find. Can’t be doing with trainin’ another one up,” Serge replied. “Though he has a mind to work with the horses,” he added, peering at his Captain.

“That can be arranged. Whatever he wants,” Treville murmured, moving away.

Turning back, Treville looked at Serge.

“You do know this was not your fault?” he said, holding the old man’s gaze.

But the old man just sniffed and turned away.

Treville walked to the end of the room, past the rest of his men, mostly quiet now, before returning to the old veteran in the corner, hunched over once more in the chair he had sat in for several hours now, not moving from the boy’s side.

“Serge,” he said gently, “time to rest now.”

Serge looked up with bleary eyes.

“Is it over?” he croaked, the toll it had taken on him all too obvious.

“I believe the worst of it is,” his Captain replied. “They are all still with us.”

Serge slowly stood, old joints cracking, and Treville reached out to put a steadying hand under his elbow as the old soldier did his best to straighten his spine. Earlier, he had found his way to the Captain’s office and attempted to give his resignation, but Treville would have none of it;

“I have had reports that some of the poorest people have died. Grain was their mainstay; bread, the only food they had. They had been using that grain for days. You have always maintained a varied stock of food for my regiment. Cheese, meat, eggs – our men did not consume as much of the cereal as they otherwise may have.

It was you who saved lives here with your quick thinking, Serge. You have done your duty. Off to your bed now. Sleep.”

As Serge shuffled off, Treville looked back.

Aramis was watching him.

“You too soldier.”

**oOo**

Back in the present, Aramis smiled.

“The Captain was right, Serge. I am sorry I brought these bad memories back to you. I had no idea you still harboured these feelings.”

“You three, and the boy,” Serge said, “Can’t imagine this place without you.”

Jacques was now the stable boy, and was shaping up to be one of their best. And Serge had a new kitchen hand. 

“He proved you wrong,” Aramis said, nodding at the new boy, who was busy shaping dough and loading it into the oven. “He’s a fast learner.”

They sat watching the boy for a while, before Aramis reached forward and snagged a cooling loaf from the tray in front of them.

“He’s a good lad,” Serge nodded in agreement. 

At that, d’Artagnan came bursting in.

“So’s this one,” the old man huffed.

“Captain wants us,” d’Artagnan said, breathlessly. “Three day mission to Lille.”

“What about the blind spot?” Aramis asked, as Porthos was expecting him.

“Captain’s assigned some of the others to that,” d’Artagnan said, grinning, bouncing from one foot to the other; eager to be off.

“Better get you some supplies then,” Serge said, the twinkle back in his eye as he looked at Aramis.

“Make sure you include some of this fine bread,” Aramis laughed, breathing in the aroma of the cooling bread.

“And _you,_ ” Aramis said quietly, standing and shoving the loaf under his arm, “Are a good man, Serge.”

He put his hat firmly on his head, looking down at him.

“We could never find another like you, my friend.”

Finally, Serge smiled shyly, before rising slowly from the bench and wiping his hands on his apron.

“Get away with you,” he huffed out, as he shuffled off, back to his ovens.

Aramis smiled as he watched him go.

Reassurances accepted it seemed, and molly-coddling over.

**oOo**

Thanks for reading!


	16. Loyalty, Above All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Loyalty, above all other virtues."
> 
> These words are spoken by Louis to d'Artagnan as he commissions him.
> 
> In this story, originally written for Mountain Cat, Louis learns a valuable lesson.

**Athos, Porthos, Aramis, d’Artagnan, Louis XIII:**

****oOo** **

****

Six months after d’Artagnan had stormed into the Garrison seeking revenge for the death of his father, Louis XVIII decided to pay his relatively new Regiment a visit. The logistics had given its Captain, Jean Treville, sleepless nights. 

Precautions were taken, and yet, all those precautions could not stop two determined men.

****

**oOo**

****

They came in as tradesmen that morning; three men, in total. Two sat in the back of the cart with the sacks of root vegetables and one drove the team of two horses. 

****

There had been a problem with one of the horse’s hooves and two of the men had taken it into the stables to be looked at. Later, the cart had been unloaded and then driven off through the archway and away; but no-one had apparently paid any attention to how many men accompanied it out. Only one, it seemed, when they later ran through the events of the day. Treville would have his guards on extra duty for weeks, if he decided to keep them in post at all.

****

Initially, all had gone well, the King seemed to have enjoyed his tour of the Garrison and was about to leave when a shout went up, followed by the crack of a pistol and one of Louis’s entourage staggered back, hit in the arm and screaming.

****

All hell then broke loose.

****

The two would-be assassins split up, one skirting around the back of the Royal party and the other to the stack of barrels in front of the mess.

****

Porthos took off in hot pursuit of the first, pulling and pushing several well-dressed persons aside before firing at the retreating figure, the ball slamming the man violently into the wall, where he crumpled to the ground.

****

Musketeers were herding the Royal group together, as Athos searched wildly for the other assassin, catching sight of him to the left of the stables. Reaching forward, he put his body between him and the King and pulled Louis with him under the wooden stairs that led to Treville’s office. 

****

Louis had become pliant, allowing himself to be manhandled, no doubt revisiting memories of his father’s assassination when he was a boy. Athos was standing in front of him now, completely shielding him as he walked him back against the wall, where he placed a gloved hand on each side of his Sovereign’s head.

****

“Be still, Majesty,” he murmured, locking eyes with his King.

****

Louis, eyes huge and mouth slack, managed to nod agreement, despite the shakes that now wracked his body. He continued to stare into the eyes of the calm Musketeer in front of him, who was forming a protective cage around him. The bullet that suddenly slammed into Athos’s shoulder did not break that eye contact, but it made Louis cower as the force pushed the Musketeer into him. But Athos locked his arms, and did not touch Louis any further than he already was.

****

“Stay, Majesty, it is not safe yet,” Athos managed to voice an instruction, for he could not order his King. 

****

Sure enough, another volley of shots was released behind them, and Louis jumped.

****

"Still, Sire," the calm voice came one last time.

****

****

Athos trusted the men at his back to do their job, Louis saw. Even though he could not see them, he was doing his own job. It could have been any one of his Musketeers that shielded him, but, as his memory stirred, Louis was surprised it was _this_ man.

****

**oOo**

****

****

Treville was bellowing in the courtyard, as Musketeers ran around. One assailant, badly wounded, but alive, was now in custody, guarded by d’Artagnan and two other Musketeers. The other assailant lay dead on the yard earth, in front of the stables; blood pooling around him.

****

Some semblance of quiet descended then.

****

Aramis and Porthos regrouped, looking around for Athos and seeing him guarding the King. 

****

“Look at ‘is shoulder,” Porthos said quietly, as he pulled Aramis over toward the two still men, standing beneath the stairs.

****

Aramis placed a gentle hand on Athos’s arm, rigid against the wall, pinning the King between that arm and his right, equally rigid.

****

“Sire, are you alright?” Aramis asked softly, but the King’s eyes were locked onto Athos’s and he did not answer.

****

Aramis nodded to Porthos.

****

Porthos moved around to Athos’s back, sliding his arm around his waist.

****

“S’alright, Athos, it’s over. You can let ‘is Majesty go now,” he whispered into his ear.

****

At first nothing happened.

****

Then, after a few moments and with supreme effort, Athos’s right arm dropped away. However, his legs were still rigid, his knees locked. Careful of the wound in his shoulder, Porthos gently bent his own knees, connecting with the back of Athos’s and he pushed gently. Athos’s knees unlocked and he went down bonelessly without a sound, his left arm caught by Aramis, as they both pulled him gently away.

****

Louis himself was also rigid, his back against the wall; having been locked within the cage that Athos’s arms and body had made around him.

****

Treville was suddenly there. 

****

“Sire, are you well?!”

****

Louis finally broke his horrified gaze from the prone man on the floor, cradled by the other two who had liberated him. Looking at Treville, who’s words he finally processed, he looked around, before straightening and stepping away.

****

“Yes,” he said, drawing out a fine linen handkerchief and putting it over his mouth, before his regal persona fell into place once more.

****

“Yes, Captain Treville.”

****

Treville waved two musketeers toward him, one being d’Artagnan.

****

“Take six men and escort his Majesty and his party back to the Palace.”

****

And with that, Louis XIII was swept away.

****

“He didn’t even ask if he was alright,” Porthos said, as they carried an unconscious Athos into the infirmary.

****

“His is the King,” Aramis ground out, his concentration otherwise engaged.

****

“An’ we are his regiment!”

****

“Enough,” Treville said, suddenly behind them. “This is a new experience for his Majesty. The main thing is he is safe.”

****

Porthos glared at him.

****

“Is it?!”

****

“Of course it is!” Treville shouted. “And if you think differently, you have no place in the Musketeers!”

****

“It is true, mon ami,” Aramis said quietly, as they crossed the threshold. “And our brother would tell you the same. If he could.”

****

**oOo**

****

The Queen had said they were a band of loyal men. 

****

Louis had been unsettled since his return to the Louvre, not just because of the attempt on his life, but by the manner in which he was saved. The Queen could see into the hearts of men more readily than he, he had come to realise.

****

****

_Loyalty, above all other virtues._

**__**

Where had he taken that maxim from?

**__**

Who had drummed that into him. And when? After his father had been assassinated? He was only nine years old, lost; surrounded by sycophants and those who would use him for political gain.

**__**

Why did loyalty mean so much to him now, as a man; as a King?

**__**

How did he know when he was being shown loyalty? Was he merely being humoured?

**__**

_“Yes, Sire. Of course, Sire. By your leave, Sire.”_

****

He heard that on a daily basis.

****

He had doubted all. Sometimes, he had even doubted his wife, yet she had shown him nothing but tenderness and friendship.

****

Was “loyalty” trust? Did someone have to actually prove they were loyal, before they were believed and trusted or was it enough for him to see them bow and follow his orders?

****

Finally, three days later, he called the Musketeer Aramis to the Palace to escort him, in disguise and under cover of darkness back to the Garrison to see the Captain of his Musketeers.

****

Once safely in Treville’s office, and in the company also of Aramis, Porthos and d’Artagnan, the King quietly unburdened himself.

****

“I have thought long on it. The Cardinal was being particularly intransigent that particular morning, Captain, as I remember,” he said softly, stealing a contrite look at Treville, who he knew, was well aware of Richelieu’s ways.

****

****

Richelieu’s insistence that morning that the King’s power was absolute had also led Louis to shut down any entreaty that Treville had attempted to make on his man’s behalf. Treville, who had also been his faithful confidante at all times. And so, he had condemned a man to the firing squad in the blink of an eye.

****

“I wish to see the Musketeer, Athos,” Louis said quietly, looking at them all.

****

Treville had nodded to his King, and to his men.

****

Aramis bowed and went ahead to the Infirmary, gently waking Athos to tell him he had a visitor.

****

Seeing that it was nightfall, Athos looked confused.

****

Aramis bulked up his pillows and raised him a little. Straightening his sheets, he placed a gentle hand on his brother’s face;

****

“Be on your best behaviour now,” he whispered.

****

“Always,” Athos whispered, as his eyes slid shut.

****

“And stay awake," Aramis said, tapping his cheek.

****

****

“Alright,” Athos sighed, “But I cannot guarantee for how long.”

****

“Not long, my friend,” Aramis replied, holding Athos’s puzzled gaze.

****

A movement caught his attention and Athos’s eyes strayed to the doorway as someone stepped across the threshold.

****

Porthos, d’Artagnan and Captain Treville all came into the room, and then parted to allow a cloaked figure to pass in front of them.

****

The cloaked figure reached up and drew down his hood.

****

The King himself.

****

Athos’s eyes flicked to Treville who raised his hand slightly, an order to be still, and Athos did so; although he doubted he could have moved if he had wanted to.

****

Aramis squeezed Athos’s good shoulder and stepped back to join Porthos, d’Artagnan and their Captain. Louis moved to Athos’s side.

****

“Musketeer Athos, I am glad to see you looking a little better,” he said.

****

“Your Majesty,” Athos managed, looking a little embarrassed. “My apologies; I cannot rise.”

****

Louis looked around at Treville, who nodded for him to carry on. “No, please, do not trouble yourself," Louis continued. "Protocol be damned,” he smiled widely, before shutting it down and growing serious.

****

“What I have to say will not take long,” Louis continued, sincerely. “And then, we will leave you to rest and recover.”

****

Athos frowned.

****

“How can I help you, Sire?” he said.

****

“I am here to give you your King’s sincere thanks. It was a very brave thing you did. This is a new Regiment, and I have not seen the like of what happened here. Every man played their part, but you, Musketeer, went above and beyond the call of duty. In truth, I need men like you, Athos.”

****

Athos was confused.

****

_“You have them, Sire,”_ he replied, quietly.

****

It was evident to him and to every Musketeer in the Garrison. It seemed, though, that the King had only just realised it.

****

Louis stared, as realisation sank in.

****

“Of course I have,” he answered softly.

****

Louis had never thought of his men as individuals. He had never properly looked into the eyes of one of them. He had never felt the protection manifest itself so viscerally, where a man such as this, whom he had condemned so easily, and without evidence, would offer his life in an instant.

****

Louis valued loyalty, and _“this Athos”_ , as he had so blithely called him as he condemned him that morning, had, two days ago, _shown_ him what true loyalty was. While others bent their knee and bowed and scraped and feigned loyalty, _this_ man embodied what his blue-cloaked elite guards were. 

****

Here, in this room, was the manifestation of loyalty.

****

He knew then, that every one of his Musketeers would do the same. 

****

Louis lifted his eyes and looked incredibly uncomfortable, but, as the dumb-struck men behind him bowed low, he gathered himself and said clearly to the man lying before him;

****

“Musketeer Athos, I owe you an apology ...”

****

**oOo**

****

Thanks for reading!

****


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